


Of Steel and Fire

by emmahlee



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: #poorviserysandhisballs, Baby Targ, Brief Mentions of Rape/Non-Con in later chapters, Dany is a great dad, Female Jon Snow, I don’t know how to put multiple chapters but I swear it’s more than one, Jon Snow Knows Nothing, Jon is a god at being stupid, Jon is very good at weapons, Jon just wants her buns, Jon’s a great mom, Let’s ignore season eight !, Male Daenerys Targaryen, Multi, Ned loves his children, Not for Catelyn fans, Sorry Not Sorry, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, also boom bet you didn’t see that character coming, and sad, and temper, boatbaby, find out next on westeros next top disaster, jon snow is confused, jon snow steals her mans drink but daeron is nice and doesn’t say anything, ned do you really think Jon’s not mad at you, new summary, only thing really, rhaegar be simpin, spoiler alert; jon has the dragons blood, though it takes a lot to anger her tbh, wait maybe Jon Snow knows something, will jon snow get a dragon to herself?, yet - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-21
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2020-03-09 05:10:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18910222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmahlee/pseuds/emmahlee
Summary: jona fought valiantly,jona fought nobly,jona fought honorably,and jona died for it.: : :the queen of the seven kingdoms lost everything. her son, her husband, her friends, her family. towards the end, she even lost herself. she was tired—tired of the fighting, tired of the treachery and brutality, tired of the long night that awaited her each morning.she wanted it all to end, and her wish is granted.does death come with a chance to redo everything? to make sure that the plans of the gods are seen through?who else is given the chance to relive a life they never asked for? to remake the choices they never thought would lead to the end of the world.would the game of thrones repeat itself? or would a new cycle begin in favor?





	1. To Live, Is To Die

**JON** **OF** **HOUSES** **TARGARYEN** **&** **STARK**

 

A rattling shout escaped her when she came into consciousness. Flashes of dead bodies filled her head, scattered body parts and corpses all over the courtyard. Blood plastered on the walls of Winterfell, Daeron’s everlasting beauty contorted into a look of despair, his body broken and beat. Nausea flooded her senses as the memories came to her, more dead bodies came into view, more intruding thoughts filled her head. Arya’s small frame laying on the floor next to the nursery, an icy-spike through the her spine. Blood as red as the bleeding leaves of the Godswood trailed through the snow, moans of pain and rattles of death surrounded her, she couldn’t escape it. It all passed by so fast, that there wasn’t an image or sound she could focus on. An image stood out though, her child’s body bowed. The coppery-scent that permeated her nose is what finally got her to open her eyes.

 

The instant they opened, Jon closed them. The moonlight streaming through the room hit her eyes with an intensity of hundreds of needles slowly pricking her eyes. She leaned forward and dry-heaved to the side. Nothing would come out of her, for there was nothing in her. Her abdominals muscles seized up and contracted, her throat spasmed, and sweat dropped from her brow by the sheer intensity of it. Until it subsided, and left her hunched over the side of the bed?

 

Her arms searched around, fingertips touching soft fur and scratchy fleece, her palms pressing down and feeling a feather-made bed and padded-cloth. Jon slowly moved her body back to bed, and curling up into a fetal position. She traced her hands down her face, reveling in the coolness of them. There was a wetness that made her stop the path she was drawing. Jon hadn’t noticed she had tears running down her face. She couldn’t remember the last time she cried out of sadness, joy mayhaps, but sadness? She had not had the time to grieve, all she did was fight, and it was tiring. She hadn’t cried when Sansa gave birth to a stillborn and died in the birthing bed, she held her in her arms and sang to her as the life slipped from her eyes. She grieved silently.

 

Jon hadn’t cried as she watched the body of her advisor and Hand of the Queen burn. Nor did a sob come out as she witnessed her husband fall to his death, or her child stabbed whilst she watched. As more bodies came and went, Jon spectated mothers killing their children so they wouldn’t starve to death, fathers shielding their children from Wights.. There was too much grief, and not enough time.

 

Jon had the time now. The tears streamed a steady path down her face, and onto her bare chest. A sob escaped her when she thought about her sweet boy. Her sweet Mai. The apple of her and Dany’s eye. Jon’s hands instinctively found her stomach, and rubbed as Dany used to, “I’m so sorry, my baby,” she whispered into the darkness of the night.

 

She grieved for the dead, and for the living. Jon grieved for the dread to come, and for her baby that lived to only see darkness. She grieved for her sisters and brothers. She grieved for the past and present, for the future that holds. For her husband, for Ghost. She grieved for everything, even the Night King.

 

Her hands buried into her face as she sobbed, Jon didn’t know where she was. From the glimpses she saw, it looked like the old room she had stayed in from her childhood years. Wait...

 

Her eyes shot open and darted across the room, exactly the same as before. The small room, big enough for a bed and a dresser, thin curtains that lined her window, and the small fox fur lined under her bed. The musty, damp smell she’d remembered lingered in the wood, and cold seemed to seep through the bare stone walls. She moved her hand to the headboard to feel if the crack in the wood was still there, sure enough, a large crack down the center marred it. She was near hysterics, her clamp on mental stability slowly wore down as tears ran down her face.

 

The thunderous bang of a heavy door echoed down the halls, even through her closed door. Footsteps followed, almost at an frantic pace. Jon’s eyes closed, trying to wish away whatever was happening. Why couldn’t she ever be in peace? Jon shifted into an upright position, a rasping noise permeated the eerie silence of the room as she ran her calloused hands down her face. Her fingertips felt for the indent of faint scars, and hands traveled down to her stomach and chest to check for the deep wounds of the mutiny and Night King.

 

A new lesion lay in the center of her chest and stomach, deep and forbidding. It’s edges and inside looked raw, but there was no blood coming out of it. Almost as if fresh meat sat on the middle of her. It was red and angry, just like scars surrounding it. But there was something about this scar, it’s edges were tinged dark blue, the muscle starting to close was a muted blue that almost looked purple. It was horrifying as she used a feather-like touch, it burned. The wound burned like the hottest of fires, but froze to the touch, because even ice has the burn of flame.

 

Jon felt different, in mind and body.

 

One foot cautiously stepped out of the bed, instantly jumping back from the roughness of the stone on her bare foot. She wriggled her toes, before settling down on the stone to familiarize herself with the biting chill of the north. As she stretched her body out, the wounds pulled taut, aflame with the pain of ten swords, making her hunch over and cough. The night was cold, but she had felt colder. Jon’s hands moved to grab her furs off the bed, intent on wrapping it around her body, but stopped instantaneously when a soft mewling sound abruptly pierced the silence of the air. Her body froze and tensed, Jon had nothing to protect herself, only her hands, which were good enough.

 

As she peeled back her covers, a loud gasp elicited out of her.

 

Jon didn’t hear the small patter of steps coming towards her.

 

.......

 

 **EDDARD** **OF** **HOUSE** **STARK**

 

Ned will admit to crying multiple times in his life. It is nothing to be ashamed about for him, he never found it embarrassing. Crying doesn’t mean a man is weak, it means he has a heart, and mayhaps he was even better after it. More gentle, more sorry, more aware of his surroundings and ingratitude, maybe even more ashamed.

 

The first time he cried as a man was the first day of Spring. Grass tickled his face and arms, flowers bloomed beneath the sunlight, happily dancing in the soft breeze that whispered against his cheek. Blood-like leaves illuminated the garden in a soft-red glow, redwoods filled the area in an musty, earthy smell and bellowed towards the sky. Streams steadily ran and birds chirped to their young. Ned was in peace. Until Lady Catelyn came to him, scroll awaiting him in her hand. The moment he saw her face, dread ha filled him. Her eyes red and puffy, and her skin sickly white. The moment Ned peered at the scroll, fat tears rolled down his face and Ned’s hand covered his mouth to keep a sob within, much to his embarrassment. Lords Rickard and Brandon Stark were dead, at the hands of the King. Catelyn only stared in pity and grief for her betrothed and soon to be good-father.

 

The next time, he was uncomfortably hot. His hair stuck to his neck, and blood matted to his hands and clothes. Wails of his sister could be heard from the bottom of the tower. He hurt all over, but nothing would ever stop a brother from saving his sister. It appeared he’d been wrong though. He could not save his sister, as she pleaded to him through tears and blood, slurring that she didn’t want to die. His hand stayed upon her hair and cheek, tears came out his eyes in impending grief. The babe placed his arms, Lyanna’s daughter, Rhaegar’s daughter, his daughter. Nothing would ever compare in Ned’s life to having a babe placed upon in his arms. He vowed to protect her, even as he wept and tears dropped onto her hair. He had forgotten about the heat, and the coppery-scent of blood and wilted roses. Ned held her hand as the life within her once lively eyes faded. Lyanna’s last words were her declaration of love to her lord husband and child. He only held Jaesenya tighter and mourned in sorrow.

 

Sickness permeated the air of the damp room the third time. It was the room of Lyanna’s daughter, his daughter. He’d never concerned himself with the living quarters of Jon, but perhaps he should have. The smallest and coldest room of the family wing of Winterfell, he would have thought it was a storage closet if not for the small bed and chest of drawers. Ned had thought Catelyn put her in another room, but apparently not. There was not enough room for him and Maester Luwin to be by her at the the same time. Jon lay pale and eyes bruised, her body rattled with the same gasps her mother once exhaled. Ned was conflicted. Anger at Catelyn filled him, and sadness and grief calmed the storm of anger, overtaking him as he watched Jon moan in pain. The room made him sweat, humid and practically seeping with ice, it was an uncomfortable feeling. The two-and-ten year old body of Jon was long and gangly, taller than Robb and almost as tall as himself, yet her feet lay hanging off the edge of the bed. He wished he could put her in Lyanna’s room, but Catelyn would never allow it. Ned has also damned her for it. Sansa had her old room, and practically destroyed all the memorabilia, stating that it was for boys.

 

He knew Catelyn prayed for Jon‘s death, she didn’t know he knew, but he did. What kind of woman wished for a child’s death? She was a good woman, a good mother, a good lady, but even the best of ladies have some of the worst of qualities. He heard briefly of the door opening and Catelyn squished his side, Maester Luwin saying that if she made it through the night, Jon would recover. He wanted to yell at them to get out, to scream at Catelyn for even being in the presence of Lyanna’s daughter while wishing for her death, but he didn’t find the words to speak, only a tear to drop. He held Jon and left, couldn’t stand to see his daughter die in pain.

 

But now, now he stood wrapped in the arms of his children. Tears streaming down his face, and he would proudly admit it. Robb, Sansa, Arya, and Rickon all piled on him. Rickon underneath his arm, Arya on his neck, Sansa hugging his waist, and Robb hugging him and Rickon at the same time. The only thing that confused him was Bran staring off in a corner away from everyone. But, nothing would ruin this moment with his children.

 

“My children, I am so, so sorry,” he mumbled through the tears, rubbing Sansa’s back as she leaned on him.

 

“There is nothing to forgive, Father. You did what you thought was right. If anything, I should be asking your forgiveness, I failed you, Father.” said Robb in a watery tone of voice, shame lacing every word.

 

Arya’s voice was different, a calmness that he‘d never heard from her, “I’ve missed you terribly, Father. So, so much.” There were tear tracks down her face, and her nose ran, but she still looked like his beautiful little girl.

 

There was nothing in the world that could stop their reunion, even as Catelyn wrapped her around them all. They stood as a family.

 

Ned felt little hands grab at his neck, demanding attention. He looked over to find Rickon smiling toothily at him, hands patting at his face. How he’d missed this.

 

They separated, each going their own way to give each other space, as they looked to one another. Catelyn stay by him, hugging his side almost desperately. “Father…” Sansa’s voice no longer had a softness, only poise and sternness he’d never heard from her. It surprised him, greatly.

 

“Sansa, my sweet girl.” His heart broke as he watched her gravel out a sob, rushing to his side again.

 

“I never thought I would see you again,” she said.

 

“Here I am, again?” he said, voice trailing off confusedly. “Why are we here, how are we here? I only remember waking up and being back…”

 

Bran stepped forward, staring at him with eerily blank eyes, and equally blank voice, “I did it.”

 

“How?” It was Robb this time, confusion dripping from his voice.

 

“Get Jon first, then we’ll talk.” His voice trailed off, looking towards the lit fireplace, staring with no emotion.

 

“Jon!” Arya yelled, little feet jumping up, and running towards the door.

 

Catelyn’s face immediately hardened, becoming tense and annoyed, surprisingly both at the same time. “Why does she need to be here?”

 

Everyone seemed to blink at her tone, not knowing what to say, “She is family.” said Bran, not turning around but having the tiniest bit of emotion in his voice.

 

“She is a bastard.” Her voice hardened, her face rotting into a look of displeasure. Sometimes, Ned felt like a coward for not sticking up for Jon, but he didn’t have to this time.

 

Sansa’s face cleared from sweet and sad, to snarling and black with anger, her voice carrying an authoritative tone that he had not even heard in some lords he’d ever talked with, “You will not talk about my sister like that!”

 

“Sansa! Do not speak to me that way! I am your mother!” yelled Catelyn, her face etched with bewilderment and surprise.

 

Luckily, for him, they were saved from the awkwardness with the arrival of Arya, but Jon nowhere in sight. Arya’s face looked pained, as if her heart broke and she was in agony. “She said she’ll be here in a few moments, there was something she needed.” He hesitated asking the next question—, “No, I didn’t see her.” She finished for him.

 

“What happened when I—“ he said, trailing off.

 

“—died?” Robb said, giving a small smile to him.

 

“Yes, that.” he said.

 

“It’s a little strange for all of us, Father.” said Sansa.

 

More than strange. All he remembered was the cries of Sansa and the crowd before it all went black. The familiar sound of Ice unsheathing made his eyes close before the deed was done. And then it went dark. Until he woke up, here, next to Catelyn.

 

The door creaking open made him jump, and everyone else. But what came through made him gasp in surprise.

 

Jon looked… terrifyingly beautiful. Her eyes were bloodshot, making the already pale eyes look inhumanly white. The skin underneath her eyes were dark, and scars running down the left and right sides of her face, though minor, they stood out against the sickly pale of her gaunt face. Inky black hair curled down to the tops of her thighs, matted curls stuck to one another. A tattered shift hung loosely on her body, double the size of her, but too short for her body. If she had been tall at twelve, she was massive now. Taller than him, taller than Robb. Although her face held some youth, her face and eyes were tired, as if she’d seen more than Catelyn and him had seen combined. Furs hung on her body, and she held something to her neck. Golden-white hair glowed a stark contrast to the black fur layer around them, a delicate hand rested across Jon’s neck. _Oh_ , he thought.

 

“Lord Stark,” Jon’s voice rang in his ears, the most melodic bells he’d ever heard, it was low and hoarse, but held a certain power to it. There was a lingering melancholic sadness, but her lips lifted in small smile, something he’d never wanted to see more from her.

 

.......

 

 **JON** **OF** **HOUSES** **TARGARYEN** **&** **STARK**

 

The halls offered her no comfort as her feet carried her to Lord Stark’s bedroom. She shouldn’t have so much anxiety about this, she’d faced the Night King for gods sake, but, she was also about to see the faces of men Jon had long accepted she would never see again. She’d come to peace with that, finally letting it go. But now, with her son in her arms, she would be reunited with her broken family. Two things she’d never thought to happen.

 

A whisper of voices came from the end of the hall, where Lord Stark’s chambers were, and it sounded suspiciously like Sansa. Her steps quickened, and grip tightened on Mairon, shuffling down the hall anxiously, stopping only where the door was, cracked opened, awaiting her arrival. Shit. She could turn around now, maybe they wouldn’t notice her not being there, then again, Arya pounding on her door and almost killing her says otherwise.

 

Her hand stopped before she could knock, instinctively going to her scabbard to fidget with the pommel of her swords, but alas, they weren’t there. She supposed, she should just walk in, what harm could it do.

 

So, she huffed, pushing the door open with one hand, keeping Mairon secure with the other, pulling his sleeping body tightly against her.

 

Seven figures stood in the dim room, candles and a hearth giving off little light. All were teary eyed, vulnerable, staring wide-eyed st her, making her even more uncomfortable than she already is. She was a queen for gods sake, she’d done this many times, but this was altogether different. The feeling of being watched by family you were certain you’d never see again was discomforting, no matter how many times you’d imagined how heartfelt it’d be.

 

Lord Stark stood gaping at her like the fish of Lady Stark’s sigil. Lady Stark’s face was as red as her hair, curled in annoyance. Robb looked relieved, Sansa’s eyes were starting to flood with tears, Arya’s as well. Bran looked like Bran, aloof with indifference and emotionless eyes watched her. Sweet Rickon smiled at her with the light of a thousand suns. Jon couldn’t look better than the lot of them.

 

Her eyes went to Lord Stark’s, trying to find the right words to say to him after so many years. “Lord Stark,” her voice hoarse, either from crying or misuse, mayhaps both.

 

“Jon,” His voice sounded relieved, it’s softness a contrast to the gruffness of his face.

 

Jon strode towards him, her legs carrying her faster than expected, stopping only when she was in front of him, looking down at his face. A small smile graced her lips as she saw him staring at the small bundle on her chest. Jon shifted Mairon to a more transferable position. “May I present to you, your grandson, Mairon of the Houses Targaryen and Stark.” her voice lowered, careful not to wake him.

 

Lord Stark looked in awe and shock, his eyes held silent tears as he raised his arms to meet hers. “He is beautiful,” he said.

 

“He is,” she said in agreement while passing Mairon over, his reaction making her smile even wider.

 

Jon turned to face her siblings, taking in each and every one of them. Her knees bent to the floor as she whispered their names, “Sansa, Rickon, Arya, Bran, Robb” her voice carrying over a whisper, but there were no tears.

 

Arya ran to Jon, her legs short and feet stomping, tears running freely down her face, and nearly flooring her. It hurt, but she would take the pain tenfold if it meant this. Her small body fitting on the side of her body, burying her head in her neck. Sansa came next, running near the same, but slower and more careful. She buried herself at the opposite of Arya, throwing her arms around her middle, much to Jon’s dismay. She held them to her shoulders, caressing their hair and whispering her love and tenderness into the air of the night.

 

Sansa cried against her shoulder, and Arya hugged her tightly. Oh, how she missed her girls. “How happy I am to see you both!” she exclaimed softly to them.

 

“I’ve missed you,” Sansa chokes out, giving her a watery smile. Arya only nodded in agreement against her shoulder.

 

Jon pulled back slightly from them, taking their faces in her hands, looking them over for any changes. “You haven’t changed, my dears. It seems, I may be the only one,” she laughed quietly to them.

 

She stood up, letting them both go. Her eyes set on Robb, making eye contact with him. She’d missed him terribly, he was her closest confidant besides Daeron.

 

They met each other in the middle, embracing in a tight hug, even if it hurt her. Jon had to look down in order to look him in the eye, which made her laugh, but there was a grief in her from even glancing at him, and anger as well. Lannisters.

 

“You look well, little brother. I see you haven’t gotten any taller,” She knew the last remark hit a nerve as soon as his face went sour, it made her laugh with glee when he went red.

 

“On the contrary, big sister, I see your voice has gotten even deeper from the last time we saw each other,” The only response she graced him was a push of the head as he laughed.

 

Small hands beat on her legs, begging for attention. Big blue eyes stared up expectingly at her, arms up, wanting to be held. “Oh sweetling,” Jon sighed as she picked him up, there was too much grief for this day to be happy.

 

Her hands found soft ringlets, brushing them back from his face, there was no scowl, or tears, only a smile. “I’m so sorry, Rickon. I should have been there faster, I- I-,” she stammered.

 

“It’s okay, Jon!” He‘s so painfully innocent that it hurt her, almost bringing back tears, “It was my fault, if I hadn’t run in a straight line, I could have gotten out of there,” said Rickon.

 

“Don’t ever think it is your fault! You did nothing wrong! Nothing!” she whispered harshly, not meaning to sound angry, but whenever she though about the Boltons, it made her lose control.

 

Jon’s eyes caught movement in the corner of the room, Bran sitting in a chair, staring off into the fire. “Bran, come here, please?” she said.

 

His eyes went to hers, blank and emotionless meeting bloodshot and emotional, Jon didn’t think he would come. But, he never failed to surprise her. He stood up and walked over to her, letting Jon take him into a hug with a single arm. “What did you do, Bran?” she whispered silently to him. He didn’t give her an answer, only slipping out of the hug to go back to his spot.

 

Lord Stark stood cooing at Mairon, rocking him in his arms. She guessed that he had awoken, probably wanting to feed. He never made a sound, it had made Daeron and her paranoid that something was wrong, though the Sam proved that nothing haunted him. Mairon gurgled when he wanted her, and made “da” sounds whenever he wished to see his father. He’d rubbed it in her face the first time Mairon said “da”, and kissed his son’s cheeks praising him. Now, nobody was cheeky to her and rubbed things in her face, only stared in fascination and fear.

 

“Da, da, da,” Mairon gurgled, patting Lord Stark’s shoulders.

 

Jon put Rickon down slowly, walking to take Mairon back from Lord Stark. “Here, let me take him.”

 

Once he transferred from Lord Stark’s arms to hers, she bounced him softly and whispered, “Daddy isn’t here, baby. He’ll be back soon.” She couldn’t tell if she reassured him, or reassured herself as well. Jon only silently hoped that Daeron would be here soon, she couldn’t do this by herself.

 

Jon looked into her child’s eyes. His face shape, nose, and mouth resembled Daeron, Mairon would grow to be a great beauty like his father. But, the eyes. The eyes of the Great Lords of the North, the eyes of the previous Kings of Winter, the eyes of his mother and grandmother. Her’s may be icy, but his are warm. The slightest tings of violet grace them, and even in the coldest of days do they ever dim. It gives her comfort to hold and stare at him, to be reminded of her husband.

 

“Mayhaps… we should go to your solar, Lord Stark. It would be easier to talk.” she said.

 

He led them to a side room, connecting with the master bedroom. Candles lined the walls, a hearth stood in the corner. Lord Stark lit a few candles and started the hearth, a welcoming heat through the coldness of the night. They waited for Lord Stark to sit in his chair before they took their seats.

 

Lady Stark sat to the left of Lord Stark, with Rickon perched on her lap, cuddling into her breast. Robb on the opposite side of Lord Stark, looking defeated as he stared down at the table. Sansa, the Great Lady she was, sat on the chair with the elegance of a queen, with Arya standing at her side, resting her hands at her shoulder. Jon, herself, nearly collapsed on a plush chair in the corner. The pain of her scar coming to bite her in the arse. She kept her head up, and controlled her emotions and put out a blank face.

 

The silence deepened in the room into an uncomfortable air, making Arya and Lord Stark squirm.

 

“Father, we must start preparing for the—“ said Bran.

 

“No, Bran. Don’t start there.” Jon said, cutting him off, giving him a look, “Let’s start… clearing things up first.”

 

Arya and Sansa nodded in agreement, “Lots happened after you died, Father, you too, Mother.” said Arya.

 

Jon steeled herself, preparing for the conversation to start getting out of hand, “Shall we begin?”


	2. Disappointing Discoveries & Dinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finals were garbage, but i still kept that 4.0!
> 
>  
> 
> i really hate this chapter, but i needed something to post while i finish the remaining parts of the next chapter. so feel free to ignore this chapter. this is about when jon is at dragonstone, she doesn’t have a great time over there. 
> 
>  
> 
> margaery is alive so that’s great, i am heading somewhere with her so don’t worry. lady olenna still is a questioning cunt, and daeron just wants to hang with his sons and jon, because they’re cool like that. 
> 
>  
> 
> anyways, let’s go back to the past,

The glowing sun, a crisp circle in the bleeding sky, illuminated an unsteady path as it dipped below the Earth. Violent waves crashed, drums of war pounding against the unstable cliffs, bringing down crumbles of rubble with every harsh push. The horizon swallowed the sky, bringing it’s own creation instead. Patches of stars freckled ever so slightly, the moon only dim for now. Red sunlight illuminated the western sea, the color of fresh blood on an open battlefield. Though twisted and warped by the glass waves, stained hands caressed every single one of the rocks on shore, bringing new ones with each surge, and old ones out to sea.

 

She’d come to think, but stood admiring her favorite time of day. The sunset. Symbolizing both death, and rebirth. With every sunset, there was a sunrise, a new beginning to every day, a new unknown heading your way. At least that is what Sansa tells her. Symbolisation is foreign to Jon, though the countless of books she’s read say otherwise, she prefers not to think about it. There’s a certain eeriness to the unknown, though she stays pondering it for countless hours.

 

Her sword and whetstone rested upon a smooth rock by her side. Jon was a tall woman, looking down at most men, but the rocks towered over her head. With natural ledges and alcoves to rest her things in, and next to it, a small grove of trees. They bore a tiny resemblance towards the godswood of Winterfell, making Jon feel a bit more comfortable outside of Dragonstone, rather than inside. Patches of wildflowers grew in an assortment of colors; blues, purples, yellows, pinks, and even reds. She’d not been told of any formal gardens of Dragonstone, but mayhaps it was for the better.

 

She longed for home, but Jon has a duty, a duty to the North, a duty to the realm. The great enemy must be fought, and won. They had to win, had to fight together, or else, everyone would die. Who cares about a silly throne? In the end, it’s the living versus the dead, but as of now? The living versus the living, fighting for the power to rule above all else. Men and women lusting after control and authority. The thought made her scoff.

 

Jon had to applaud Olenna Tyrell and the Tyrell house ambition for the throne, it was never ending. More than a few times did she see Lady Margaery practically hugging the leg of Daeron Targaryen. Lady Margaery is kind, she supposed. Shrewd, generous, beautiful, the makings of a good queen. But, fuck, the Tyrell’s were a petty lot. Looking for vengeance, not even worried for their own. They hadn’t heeded her advice, and Jon was afraid that Cersei would march right into Highgarden. The same with the Dornish and Ironborn. Petty people looking for bloodshed. She tried to tell them, it’s their fault if they didn’t listen to a military standpoint rather than a personal hope for success.

 

The only person that seemed to heed her advice was Davos, but Daeron stuck to Tyrion’s plan. The whole lot of them still thought of her as a bastard with no voice or say so. Let them think of whatever they please, it does me no harm.

 

A soft, wet nose touched her hand, alerting Jon to a presence. Ghost settled beside her, head resting at her breast. His fur bathed in the red of the sun, and red eyes bore into hers. She scratched his ears in greeting, and ran her hands down the back of him. Jon took great comfort in Ghost, the welcoming warmth of him to the eyes wiser than man.

 

Both her and Ghost’s ears perked at the sound of footsteps nearing, though Ghost merely brushed it off and laid on the side of Jon. “You’re a hard woman to find, Jona Snow.”

 

Daeron Targaryen came striding through the trees, voice smoother than silk. For the first time, Daeron looked calm, he dressed casually with his hair unbound and damp, blowing in the wind. The complete opposite of her. All she’d worn at Dragonstone were her armor and leathers, with her hair bound tightly at the nape of her neck.

 

“However did you find me then, Your Grace?” Jon asked, turning her head back to meet his eyes.

 

He seemed to be amused by the question, the small smile now took over his face, “Your ever faithful companion lead me to you. He’s quite the terrible guide, really, left me lost quite a few times.” he said lazily.

 

At the implication of him, Ghost sauntered over to Daeron with his tongue rolled out of his mouth, pushing his nose into Daeron’s hands. His paw scratched at his leg as he begged for attention.

 

She didn’t know why Ghost was acting quite…friendly, to Daeron Targaryen. Jon still acted awkward towards him, and Ghost was a near extension of herself.

 

As she moved closer, Jon noticed how pretty he looked in the sunlight. She‘d always been an admirer of lovely things. His eyes were ablaze with a violet-hazed fire, the tan skin that got progressively more pale every time she saw him glowed, his darker brows and lashes carried his face beautifully, and Daeron’s hair shone like moonlight against the sea.

 

“I come with an invitation, Jona Snow,”

 

She cleared her throat, and stared at anything but him, “To what?”

 

“You’ve been here a short while, but you have yet to meet with any of the other kingdoms. I can’t have my allies not be well acquainted with one another. I wish to extend a dinner invitation to you, and whomever you wish to bring.” he answered, abruptly turning around to walk away, but glanced over his shoulder at her, “Wear a dress, Lady Snow.”

 

Before she could reply, he strode away. Jon shifted on her feet and scratched her head, “Shit, Ghost.” she muttered.

.............................................................................

 

The soft velvet cushion she sat on was uncomfortable. It’s material made her thighs sweat and stick to it. Sansa had lined the inside of her dress with silk, hoping it to be cool, but instead it stuck to her like a second skin, destroying its use entirely. Though she’d never say that to her personally. The high neck of the collar made her comfortable, and discomforted at the same time. It’d become too tight, the wool making her neck itchy, the sweat chafing at the material. She had to look like a mess.

 

Lady Margaery looked stunning. The dress hugged her figure, the green a sharp contrast to the bronze of her hair, which had been worn loosely, only adorning a couple braids to pull keep the strands out of her face. Her manicured hands delicately laid across Daeron’s arm, clutching lightly whilst giggling at one of his stories. Though Jon hadn’t been listening, she’d managed to block out almost all of the tipsy talk. She might be the only one that’s sober, the smell of the wine overpowered even Lady Margaery and her ladies perfume.

 

Jon, in simpler terms, did not want to be at this dinner.

 

The redeeming quality has been the food, the flavors… it’d almost made her moan out loud and roll her eyes to the back of her head. She was glad it wasn’t all seafood, or else it would have been even more of a bummer than what it was now. The Honeyed Chicken and Quails Drowned in Butter melted off of her tongue, the seasoning and flavoring was an extraordinary experience she wanted to live in for the rest of her life. The sweetness of the honey had paired well with the creaminess of the potatoes. Buttered Beets and Leeks almost had her banging her head on the back of the chair.

 

The dessert floored her. Now, she’d never been one for Lemon Cakes, somehow they’d always been made wrong and the lemon tasted off, but these amazed her. Sweet and sour collided like ice and fire, colluding against one another to gain the upper hand, but alas, they worked together in harmony, providing her tastebuds with a wonderful dance of flavors that made her eyes water. The Blueberry Tarts glided across the roof of her mouth, the sweetness a welcoming taste after the tartness of the lemon. The buttery crust flaking off at the touch of her tongue. If this is what heaven was, she’d gladly stayed after the mutiny.

 

But, now the food was gone. And so was her enjoyment.

 

Jon drowned out the ever-rising voices of the high ladies and lords that kneeled to House Targaryen. A dull ache resided in her eye, reminding her that the job wasn’t good enough. Ladies screeched in her ear and men guffawed in her head. A monstrous headache approached and Jon didn’t plan to be sober for it.

 

Fingers went searching for a goblet and pitcher, and a hand rested on her temple, a hidden gesture that wouldn’t alert any of the other guests into asking questions. Right when crystal glass made contact with her her fingertips, she snatched at it discreetly and pulled it towards herself.

 

What she didn’t see, was the pale hand that gripped it.

 

.............................................................................

 

His nails dug crescents into his thigh as he tried to keep his composure through smiles. The hand that gripped his arm annoyed him to no end, making a vein on his temple pulse in annoyance. An ache between his eyes caused him to drink more heavily than usual, screeches of laughter added to that as well.

 

The Tyrell’s had overstayed their welcome, but through a King’s courtesy, it wasn’t as if he would kick them out. He needed allies, strong ones. And no matter how annoying they may be, they were a strong house that could provide him with many resources.

 

Margaery Tyrell was off, something about her screamed dishonesty. Beauty practically oozed off her, the warm golden eyes and bronze hair made a dangerous combination. There’s a glint behind those warm eyes that made him apprehensive about the Tyrell’s.

 

How many times had she been remarried? He’d lost count, so had the rest of Westeros.

 

Daeron was not about to marry her. No, the Tyrell’s were not to be integrated with him, he’d rather have his line die off.

 

If his line didn’t already die off without their help. How many times did he look to the Moon and silently pray to whatever gods there were? He desperately hoped that the witch had been wrong, but he wasn’t about to test his hypothesis on a Tyrell widow that wished for more than she could support.

 

His eyes drooped, though he causally passed it off as drunkenness. He’d be anything but drunk in the company of High Lords and Ladies, who knows what would come out of his mouth?

 

It seemed Daeron wasn’t the only one fighting off boredom as he looked over at the lady on his left. Jona Snow stared out into the open, with her eyes half-lidded, whilst resting her hand on her chin. The eerily pale eyes lazily wandered around, not staring at anything indefinitely. Her fingertips drummed on the table next to his hand, tapping in a song-like rhythm he’d never heard before.

 

He never knew a woman could have as many scars as Jona Snow did. Daeron had seen woman warriors before, but none held the amount of scars that she bared. He expected that there was more underneath her armor and clothes.

 

His eyes drifted lazily over the top of her figure. From the grey high-neck collar, to the iron supports underneath her breasts. Everything about that woman was steel.

 

She ate with grace, but devoured her food like a wild hound. Not in the way she ate, but how fast, as if someone would take it from her and she wouldn’t get it back. It intrigued Daeron, very much so.

 

More than once did he see the ladies of Margaery scoff at her in disgust, giggling to one another about how much the Queen in the North was eating. That may have been the only thing that disgusted him, it boiled an anger deep in his heart. He didn’t know why either.

 

But, Lady Snow stayed unaware, or felt it too unimportant to respond. He only watched as she stroked her water goblet with a calloused finger, acting as if she were listening to the conversation.

 

He took time to glaze over her features, to memorize the way her cheekbones angled and mouth pouted downward. Jon Snow was beautiful, in a cutting way. Every single one of her features could slice, except for the softness of her mouth, the fullness of her lips. The way her white teeth gnawed on her bottom lip as she wandered in her own mind. The long curl that came loose from the tight bun that pulled at her scalp. Her eyebrows angled sharply, dark but pleasant on her face.

 

Everything about Jona Snow blended nicely together.

 

Daeron wished to touch her face. He wanted to see if it was as sharp as he envisioned, or mayhaps even soft in his hands.

 

“—Your Grace?” A feminine voice called him out of his daydreaming.

 

Violet eyes snapped up to meet bronze ones. He played a light grin on his face, “Lady Margaery, forgive my rudeness. I seemed to be more tipsy than I thought,”

 

A soft giggle sang from her mouth, “There’s no need to apologize, Your Grace. You are King after all,” she said, trailing a hand down his arm.

 

It took all of his willpower to force himself not to push her off of him, instead he plastered a kingly smile on his face. “A King cannot have common courtesy?”

 

The annoyed twitch began again as her hand continued to travel up and down his arm. He side-glanced Jona and saw her fingers start twitching around the table, searching for something.

 

“I think we’ve established that you are no regular King,” Her voice border-lined a seductive purr that made his skin crawl, “You are a just ruler, a fair king, and a honorable man. All the makings of great king.” Her hands slipped towards his shoulder and started to make their way down his chest.

 

Daeron turned his body unexpectedly, knocking her hands off into a tumble, his goblet was snatched out of his hand.

 

A pale hand gripped his goblet and pitcher, not even noticing that it was half full. Jona Snow looked to be lightly sweating, and a vein twitching on her temple. She had a deathly grip on the pitcher as she gulped down the wine. Her legs shot up to carry her to her next destination.

 

Daeron couldn’t suppress the snicker as it bubbled out of him.

 

“Is something the matter, Your Grace?” Margaery said innocently, batting her eyelashes at him.

 

Huh? Nobody saw? Daeron glanced sideways to see that everyone was conversing with one another, drinking and chatting, faux or not, it seemed as if the night would go on peacefully. “Oh, Lady Margaery, there is nothing wrong, only a mere twitch in my side,” he said.

 

His legs carried him before his mind could catch up, ”Lady Margaery, forgive me, but I feel as if I’ve been neglecting my guests. If you’ll excuse me…” he trailed off, turning his body to leave.

 

Whatever she did after escaped his notice as he ventured to The Queen in the North. She’d gotten up, and sat on a chaise near the blazing hearth. The white direwolf laid on her leather boots, rubbing his large head up and down her calves as she rubbed his ears. It reminded him of his own sons and himself.

 

A lonely pale hand rested on her hip, as if she were missing something. His goblet now off to her side, the end table older than both of their ages combined.

 

“Lady Snow,” he started, the pale eyes staring with little emotion.

 

“Your Grace,” Jona started to get up, but stopped when his hand came up.

 

“No need, Lady Snow.” Daeron took the chair across from her, knees cracking as he sat. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

 

The direwolf padded over towards him, resting his head on Daeron’s thigh.

 

“You are a gracious host, Your Grace. The evening has been most eventful, thank you for extending an invitation towards me.” Jona said, inclining her head towards him.

 

He gave a true smile to her. Not the forced ones he showed to the High Ladies and Lords, but one he bestowed on another who deserved it.

 

.............................................................................

 

Daeron simply was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. His smile could prove it. The straight teeth gleamed in the low light, the pearly hair flowed down his shoulders, even when tied in numerous braids. Those violet eyes twinkled and shone, and his cheeks carved into dimples. A marvelous man.

 

The sound of wood pounding the floor shook her from her stupor. The small Lady Olenna stood beside her chair, hazel eyes gleaming with mirth. “Lady Snow… or is it Queen Snow? I don’t believe we have ever had the chance to become acquainted.”

 

Her face twitched in equal parts annoyance and discomfort. “Lady Tyrell, I’ve heard great things about you, it’s a pleasure to finally meet your acquaintance.”

 

Lady Olenna took one look at her face and scoffed, “You Northerners are shit at politics, my dear. That’s how your Lord Father was killed, you wouldn’t want the same fate happening to you,” she said, huffing and turning towards the chair Daeron sat in.

 

“Oh! Your Grace, I didn’t see you there, my apologies,”

 

His lips turned into an indescribable smile, a dark brow quirked as he responded, “No? I must take my leave, forgive me, Lady Snow.” Daeron glanced at the old woman, “Lady Olenna,”

 

With bowed heads, Olenna and Jon excused the King. “Your Grace,” they chanted in unison.

 

She shifted in her seat as she watched Daeron stride off in long steps. From the corner of her eyes, Jon saw Lady Tyrell peering at her with a look in her eye.

 

“I didn’t mean any disrespect by the last comment. Your father… was a good man, an honorable one, probably the best a man in these ages could come to be. But, he got caught up in the game of thrones, he could have never expected it.” said Lady Tyrell.

 

“He was a great man, a good father,” she agreed, rubbing her fingers on the Stark pin at her side.

 

Lady Tyrell studied her for a moment, taking in her face and body, hazel eyes scrutinizing her to the full extent. “You don’t look like him. You have the look of the Starks, but not him. Granted I’ve only saw him a couple times in my life. You have sharper features, different eyes, and you’re taller.”

 

She drank a long gulp of her wine, pausing for a moment before continuing, “I thought you were a man when I first saw you! What a wonderful woman you are, taller than all of my grandsons, mayhaps even a stronger swordsman as well! I believe Garlan would have a hard time keeping up with you,”

 

There wasn’t a frown on Jon’s face, but she could feel one forming, “I’m not that good of a swordman, more people could be better.” she said, shrugging her shoulders.

 

“Not that good, my arse. Haven’t you heard the whispers surrounding you, Lady Snow? My have they spun a wheel of tales regarding you and your victories. ‘The White Queen of the North’, and ‘The Queen of the Winter Winds’. I’ve heard many stories regarding you and the Bolton’s, all of which I was glad to hear. Your sister didn’t deserve anything that cunt Ramsay did to her.”

 

Jon Snow did not like this topic and it seems that Lady Tyrell had a lot to say about it.

 

“She’s a lovely girl, your sister. Which brings me to my next question. Why is the Bastard of Winterfell, the Queen in the North? Why, when there is a full-blooded Stark girl at home, who by my observation, would make a competent ruler? Why did the Northmen choose a bastard over a true-born?” Lady Tyrell tapped her fingers against the wood of the armrest, condescending eyes apparent.

 

Jon’s eyes turned to liquid steel, gaze reaching a coldness to match the winter terrain beyond the wall.

 

She’d never deny her bastard status, half of her didn’t care anymore, but why is it always used against her? Jon didn’t ask to be born a bastard of Ned Stark, so why did the blame constantly be blamed upon her? Why did the Northern Lords choose her over Sansa?

 

“Are you deaf, girl? Or, just stupid? Perhaps even both.” said Lady Tyrell

 

 _What_ _the_ _fuck_ …

 

“Lady Tyrell, I hardly think you are in a position to be openly disrespecting a potential ally. You should be careful on who you run your mouth to, especially with Cersei Lannister on your arse. I’d be a shame of Highgarden was taken, I’ve heard it to be one of the nicest castles in all of Westeros. And with you here, who’s protecting Highgarden? The Tyrell Army? Your Grandson? The Oaf of Highgarden? All of your allies are dead, you badmouthing the rest of the Seven Kingdoms might just be the end of your house’s reign.” Her eye openly twitched, and her voice remained passively calm, betraying the heat of her words.

 

Lady Tyrell only leaned on her hand and grinned at her, “I’m glad you have fire, girl.” She shook her head, taking a swig from her goblet, “But, that still doesn’t answer my questions. You were in the Night’s Watch, correct? The Northern Lords should by all means know this. You should be dead, you deserted from the Night’s Watch, left your post. Why aren’t you hung up in a tree somewhere?”

 

The nerve of this woman, really. The seat of her chair felt too hot for this, the pounding throb behind her eyes blissfully painful, a grounding she didn’t know she needed. Ghost whimpered beside her, and nudged his head alongside of her stomach. “I do not need to—“ Jon’s words choked out at the end, grunting as the impact of twelve knives came at her.

 

Hot steel and frozen winds nipped at her skin, the piercing blade twisting within her chest cavity, knives turning and puncturing continually within her gut. Jon’s heart wasn’t audible through her ears, as it had been before. Blood rushed from her face, numbing her nose and lips. She was being impaled continuously. Raking breaths passed her ears, her heartbeat muddling to a stop, she couldn’t feel anything.

 

Furry paws went for her chest, knocking her back against the chair, sticking her dress to her breasts. Wetness dripped between her and the slip, Jon didn’t know if it was real, or was it just an imagination. Her scars ripped open with the force a thousand-fold over, a scream threatened to escape her, was she breathing?

 

“—Lady Snow? Are you alright?” said a distant voice, Lady Tyrell, she thought.

 

A grunt finally tumbled passed her lips, harsh and softly. “‘Scuse me, Lady Tyrell. I must take my leave.” The words slurred uncharacteristically, words jumbled together and saliva dripped down her tongue.

 

Ghost instantly came to her side, cloak in his mouth as she stumbled into him, gripping hard onto his fur to normalize her gait. A distant blur of silver passed her eyes, along with several jumbled hair colors mixed together. She needed out, fast. Shapes and colors danced around her eyes as she struggled to find the exit.

 

Her senses heightened, voices becoming shouts, laughs becoming screams, Jon needed it all to stop.

 

Her hands scratched for a door, the stone archway a clear hint to where it was. A cool handle grasped into her palm, she flew opened the door and tripped out, slurring after Ghost as her legs threatened to give way. The formless dress catching between her feet.

 

Jon’s world turned on her heels, spinning so fast that she couldn’t keep a grip on the floor, tumbling into Ghost’s awaiting body.

 

He dragged her farther than he could stand, she knew that, his body buckled under the weight of her, but he wouldn’t protect his friend at all costs, whatever it took. She really hoped there wasn’t blood on the floor, or anywhere else for that matter.

 

The door was less than twenty feet away, an easy enough distance to try an stumble. “Ghost, let go.” she stumbled and slurred, tongue lazily forming words.

 

She lumbered towards the imposing door, heavy steps echoing against the gravel and stone. The halls were empty, moaning in protest against the rain and wind as it pounded against the windows and foundation. Jon clawed at the stone to keep a steady grip, Ghost’s head against her thighs to keep her upright. She was almost there…

 

Her hand gripped the iron handle, pulling with all of her worth. _It’s_ _not_ _opening_ …

 

“Ghost… please,” Her tongue heavy in her mouth, pleading help to her friend.

 

His teeth gripped her cloak, pulling and ripping the fabric as the combined strength sent the door flying open. Jon made it five steps before she collapsed onto the wood of the floor. Ghost’s paws closing the door were the only sounds to flood the room, his nails tapping the wood as he sauntered over to her.

 

“Ghost…” she whispered.

 

White light was the last thing she saw, a soft tongue scraping across her face was the last thing she felt, and a low howl was the last thing she heard.


	3. The Circle of Destruction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my bad for not posting for so long… i’ve been doing honors homework and reading shit for that so i haven’t had a lot time to write. when i’m completely done with that, i’ll have more regular updates! 
> 
> anyways long story short, i’ve still managed to evade from writing the history talk chat thing with the starks, i don’t know what to write about in that convo. 
> 
> this chapter is pretty angst at least for 6/8 starks. rickon and jon are fat chilling, so they cool. there’s also quite a bit of pov’s so watch out!
> 
> anyways… enjoy! pretty bad writing on my end lol

** JON OF HOUSES TARGARYEN & STARK **

 

A terse silence echoed throughout the room, prickling the minds of each individual. Lady Stark’s unwavering state made her legs bounce, playing it off as a way to entertain Mairon. Nobody knew how to start the uncomfortable conversation without offending anyone’s mind so soon. 

 

 

Bran hunched forward, eyes darting to see who’s mouth would speak out first… a single person wouldn’t budge. 

 

 

Jon’s head whirled in thoughts, analyzing each key event that changed the course of actions in Westeros.  What could have been told wrong that changed everything? 

 

 

She thought back to when she began to think about leaving Winterfell, anything that could have corresponded and caused disastrous events...  Who’s responsible for the most?

 

 

Littlefinger…  She hadn’t wanted to start off strong, but this was too important… it changed everything.

 

 

Jon’s mouth itched for water, tongue clumping into a dry mess, slugging into jumbled words before she got the change to speak. She coughed once, twice, wincing at the pain of a thousand knives stabbing into her abdomen. 

 

 

“The smallest of events have changed the course of Westeros for many years… each person playing the game in their own different way. For each of your deaths, each could be traced back to one person. He was unsuspecting, mayhaps he was even the most suspecting… but lurked in the shadows, spinning and spewing his tales to lords and ladies… little birds in his game.” 

 

 

Ned spoke out, concern hinted in his voice, “Who is this man you speak of, Jon? Speak plainly… and truly.” 

 

 

Jon huffed a dry laugh, eyes going dark as she thought about the things the despicable, little rat of a man did, “None other than the mockingbird himself… Lord Petyr Baelish.” 

 

 

Lady Stark blanched, hands shaking as she sipped at her goblet of water, “Petyr…” she whispered in disbelief. 

 

 

Jon leaned back, placing Mairon more comfortably on her chest whilst patting his back. She glanced to Sansa and Arya, both of them huddled together, dark looks completely the opposite reasons from one another. “Lord Baelish is not the only one. Maybe one of the key players, but another played a key part. Lady Arryn lied to you, Lady Stark. The note she sent you… lies spewed together to create tension and dispute between the Lannister’s and Stark’s. Littlefinger told her to do it, and she believed in him, her love too strong for the man to deny him anything. Tyrion Lannister had nothing to do with the fall.” 

 

 

A chair squeaked and a goblet dropped, outrage poured off of Lady Stark in strong waves, anger towards Jon… “Lies! The bastard lies! You know _nothing_ ,  girl! Nothing !  You’re nothing but a _lying bastard_!  How dare you accuse my Lady sister of something so despicable, you dare accuse a Lady of higher status—“ bellowed Lady Stark, becoming more and more furious at the bored look on Jon’s face.

 

 

Jon passed Mairon to Robb’s awaiting arms, “If you’d quiet down, it’d be appreciated. I would personally rather not have a crying child to take care of at the moment.” she said, looking Lady Stark straight in the eyes, unwavering pale eyes meeting blue. 

 

 

“Do not dare assume to order me around, bastard! Why should I do anything for you or your bastard son!” she screamed. 

 

 

Time suddenly stopped for the Stark family, watching in fear for what would occur within the next few moments, Arya and Sansa wide eyed and Lord Stark holding his breath. All was quiet. 

 

 

Jon’s hands deathly gripped the armrests of the chair, wood cracking underneath the pressure of her strength. Eyes blazed with the light of a thousand fires, the famous Targaryen temper popping out of her temple, “If you _ever_ insult  my son _again_ ,” Jon stopped, eyes closing in attempt to keep her calm, “You will die screaming by my own hands.” her voice was final, lips pursed and voice strong, striking fear through every person in the room. 

 

 

Sansa spoke up, “Family, Duty, Honor… the famous words of House Tully. Aunt Lysa posses none of those. She’s a psychotic, awful wench who tried to throw me from her moon roof. Nothing that Jon said was a lie, in fact, those words would have came out of my mouth if I had thought about, mother.” 

 

 

Lady Stark seemed to be on the verge of awful sobs, something nobody in this room wanted to happen, all for completely different reasons. 

 

 

“Perhaps we should continue this when it’s light out?” said Lord Stark. 

 

 

Everyone voiced their agreements, Jon only closed her eyes and reached out for her child, the feel of him on her chest was all she needed. “Lord Stark,” she acknowledged before stepping out, ducking through the door. 

 

 

Jon noticed that she wasn’t as tall… nor was her face the same. A certain youthfulness graced her body, though her breasts still held their milk. Everything seemed smaller and less angular. 

 

 

Bare feet stepped in synchronization to hers, arms reaching out to pull her into a hug. Robb may be much shorter than her right now, but hopefully he would grow into their hugs. His warmth flooded her emotions, he reminded her of Daeron. He always craved her innocent touches, something he was deprived from when younger. 

 

 

Her free arm wrapped around the man she missed for many years, hand resting on the auburn curls as he sniffled into her shoulder. “Robb Stark… I thought it would be hundreds of years before I ever saw you again. But, here we are.” 

 

 

“Here we are.” His hands tensed on her waist, almost painfully when he looked up from her shoulder. 

 

 

Theon Greyjoy stood wide-eyed, his stance vulnerable and frightened. Hands clutched at the nightshirt he wore, and his body seemed to curl into itself. Just looking at these halls gave him great pain, she imagined.

 

 

Robb’s eyes poured with murderous intent, his heart blazing at the prospect of attacking his, hands itching to fight him, “I will kill him.” he graveled out, teeth grinding against one another. “You betrayed me! You betrayed the Stark family!” Voice bellowing across the hall.

 

 

Even severely weakened and tired, with a child in one hand, Jon Snow could still hold back a grown man. She pinned Robb on the wall behind them, cold stone meeting his hot body. Her hand lightly rested on his neck, holding him from beating Theon. Robb only thrashed in the hold, advancing to attack the man he thought killed his brothers. 

 

 

“Theon, leave, NOW!” Her harsh voice resonating across the empty halls. Theon took off running, bare feet clapping against the ground.

 

 

“Come back, you coward!” Robb yelled. “Let me go!” He tried shaking from her hold, but Jon wouldn’t budge. 

 

 

“Robb, let it go for now… he’s atoned for his sins. Go to your room, get some rest and calm yourself down. We have a lot to talk about in the morning,” 

 

 

Her words seemed to infuriate him further, just as she imagined, Jon only wanted to buy some time for the slimy boy to hide. 

 

 

“How do you expect me to calm down! That man killed my brothers… betrayed House Stark! How would you know the pain of betrayal… you’re not a Stark.” he said bitterly, though she couldn’t blame him. It was the heat of the moment, fight or flee.

 

 

“You’re right, mayhaps I’m not.” She patted his shoulders and smoothed out his hair, every man seemed more like a boy when you became a mother, a certain vulnerability fills their eyes and wishes for their mother at times. “Get some rest. We’ll talk about the future tomorrow.”

 

 

Jon Snow for the first time walked away from Robb Stark, leaving him to ponder himself.

 

 

Her door welcomed her for the first time, she only wished to get away and snuggle with her child. The simple pleasure she could finally enjoy since the war. 

 

 

A bare foot followed the latter, cold stone digging through the soft skin of her soles. The iron handle screeched in response to opening the door, taking much more force to push open the usual. Jon was tired, but she knew sleep couldn’t come at this state.

 

 

A small body nestled into her neck further, grabbing locks of hair and tugging. “No, no, no, Mai. Your father would be most displeased with you, if you tore out all my hair.” She laughed softly, bouncing him a few times on her chest.

 

 

She realized that she had not supplies for him, no clothes or food, no cloth nappies for him to use. Jon groaned inwardly, she felt she aged a thousand years in the span of a few months. “Let’s go, baby. We’ll get you some clothes and nappies, yes? Sounds like a good plan?” 

 

 

Mairon only gurgled and stuck her fingers into his mouth, sucking to relive the tensions of his teeth coming in. Her poor breasts, she’ll have to get some salve to heal them in the coming days. 

 

 

Her feet crossed the small room, making her feel taller than usual, everything seemed so small. She grabbed the only robe she ever owned, the thin fabric never had warded her from the harsh chills of winter. The fabric once was long on her, just like her nightgown, but had since been tattered with age and growth. 

 

 

“Mai… we have to stay quiet, okay? Wouldn’t want to wake any nice people up, that would be unkind.” she whispered to him, closing the door quietly.

 

 

Wandering the halls you never thought to see again was somewhat of an uneasy feeling. The large windows lining the stone walls shone with silver moonlight, illuminating Mairon’s hair to a bright white. The smooth piney smell gave her the sweetest of memories, hints of spice ran through the air, soap and flowers coming through the washrooms. It smelt of a home she once knew. Now the only thing that could bring her a measure of comfort like this would be the soft baby scent of Mairon and the warm spice of Daeron. 

 

 

It left her nostalgic; death would leave her traumatized for the rest of her days, as well as comforted. The oblivion that waited for her to arrive, to spend the rest of her days in silence. 

 

 

The supply room of Winterfell was filled with useful household items; scratchy woolen blankets, furs, flat pillows, towels and cloths, anything that men seem to think was a woman’s job. Her only need came to be the cloth. The last month of her pregnancy left her bedridden at terrible timing. With no books to interest her further, she took to the next skill that needed improving; sewing. Though she cannot embroider, she’s pretty damn good at sewing now. Jon remembered when Daeron caught her sewing socks for their child, it’s one of her fondest memories, he simply smiled at her and asked if he could help in anyway. She ended up teaching him to sew. 

 

 

She smiled down to the bundle on her chest who sucked on her thumb, “What do you think,Mai, blue or grey? If only there was red to match your father.” Jon stood by the fabrics and held them up, watching him paw at the blue one, “Blue it is,” 

 

 

Jon lightly put the fabric over his face, and laughed when he squealed out, batting the fabric off, “What happened, Mai?!” 

 

 

Her body took her to the kitchen, her stomach growling and body aching. The food held in the kitchen at this hour was slim to none, only fruits and stale pastry’s. The apples called out to her, deliciously red and plump, making her lick her lips at the sight of it. 

 

 

Jon’s teeth sunk into the apple, juice running down her chin and onto her robe. Mairon grumbled, patting the apple and her chin, releasing the thumb in his mouth. 

 

 

Her eyebrow raised and cheeks dimpled, “Oh? You want some?” The apple was placed lightly in his lips, letting the juice run into his mouth. He scrunched his face, and started smacking his lips in disgust. Jon scrunched her face in return, making him giggle and clap. “Shhhh… remember what I said,” she put a finger to her lips.

 

 

A gasp alerted her to a presence behind her, followed by the crashing of a basket. Jon turned around quickly, eyes sharpening to protect her child from any danger. 

 

 

Jesmyne Parge, her most loyal maid stood behind her, eyes vulnerable and frame shaking. “Your Grace?”

 

 

A smile graced her lips, “Jesmyne, it is a pleasure to see you once again, my friend,” 

 

 

Jesmyne’s lovely features curved downwards, and brows furrowed, “Wh-, how are we here? Is this a dream?”

 

 

“I sure hope not. It’d be a shame if it was,”

 

 

Her green eyes lightening, and lips curved upwards, “It sure would be, Your Grace. Did you need anything… at all?”

 

 

Jon walked by her and put an appled hand on her shoulder, “Don’t raise any suspicion, we don’t know who knows anything, my dear.”

 

 

Jesmyne curtsied low to the floor, straining her young body, “Anything for you, Your Grace,” 

 

 

“Have a wonderful night, Jesmyne.” 

 

 

Her arms adjusted Mairon and walked faster to her musty room, “Let’s go, babe, time to go night night.” 

 

 

…..

 

 

** SER JAMIE OF THE HOUSE LANNISTER **

 

Wanton moaning suffocated his ears in an irritating way. Wine permeated through the hallsoutside the door of the King’s chambers. It absolutely disgusted him, and he got the same guard duty every single time. 

 

 

When he woke up in his old Kingsguard chambers this morning, he wanted to run himself through with the golden sword to his left. He didn’t want to deal with any of this shit again, he had enough for one lifetime, let alone two. 

 

 

The marks that had killed him vanished, disappearing into thin air, there was not evidence that he’d ever been in another lifetime. Nobody in King’s Landing acted suspicious, none alerting him to being out of place. Jamie wanted to see Tyrion, but he needed to see Ser Barristan. 

 

 

Jamie could freely admit that he lacked smarts, he could barely read when he was younger only caring about his sword and Cersei... She could be a problem.

 

 

The Mad Queen remembering her past life would be worse than bad, it could become a catastrophe. Puffs of green fire was the last memory of her, the eyes that stared up at him in hatred as she choked to death by his hand. Jamie didn’t think he could it again, it nearly destroyed him the last time. Only Tyrion remained to repair him. 

 

 

Jamie needed to speak with Ser Barristan and Tyrion alone, and in private.

 

 

To leave would be paradise, maybe go to the North. Live in a dirt hut somewhere for the rest of his days. Now that he has his hand back, he’d get that spar from Jon Snow herself.

 

 

Ah, that’s the pressing matter, Jon Snow. Perhaps he should tell Rhaegar’s dearest friend about her, and how she would be the best queen the Seven Kingdoms has ever seen, and Daeron Targaryen the best king. 

 

 

He only hoped they could get to Winterfell soon enough, he had amends to make and spars to win. 

 

 

.....

 

 

** SANSA OF HOUSE STARK **

 

She cursed her body for the agony it put her in. She cursed Ramsay for the state he put her in and the trauma she had to go through, she cursed the world and then some. 

 

 

Seeing her father after so many years of the pain of watching your parent lose their head, made her soul twist. She’d been through too much, seen too much, felt too much, Sansa wanted peace. 

 

 

Being with her nephew gave her peace, Arya and Jon did as well. Her mother made her uneasy, and her brothers stressed her out just by looking at them. 

 

 

Sansa sensed a war coming, she may be a slow learner, but this war was one she already faced. Mayhaps, it would be less brutal this time. Though she’d practically seen nothing, Jon always shielded her from seeing the worst of it. Sansa also was one of the first ones to go, sickness had claimed her and her child. 

 

 

As heartless as it sounded, Sansa never grew an attachment to the baby Ramsey fathered. She desperately wanted to, she’d wanted to hold her baby and feel the love Jon felt for sweet Mai, wanted to see him grow and not be reminded of Ramsey. But, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. It hurt too much. 

 

 

She felt unworthy. Unworthy of the bed she lay on, and it’s soft blankets and furs. The flowery smells that lingered in the air, the Southern dresses her mother had made for her, sewn from love. It disgusted her for reasons unknown. 

 

 

Sansa knew the conversation would go horribly tomorrow, Mother had already shown she would have a meltdown at any event she did not like. Politics were a gentle affair, one small move and everything could go to shit. She only wished that the rest of her family were well equipped in politics as her. 

 

 

Playing moves carefully, was the best option that the Stark house could make. Sansa had no idea who remembered past events, she only hoped that Cersei did not. They did not need anymore troubles in the future. 

 

 

Sansa couldn’t sleep, this room reminded her of Ramsay too much. Her bare soles hit the ground, digging into soft furs below her feet. The silky robe lay across her chair, it’s blue fabric shining in the moonlight. She draped the robe gently over her shoulders, the fur lined silk rubbing softly into her neck. There was such a stark contrast to how Arya and her were treated compared to Jon. 

 

 

Down the silent hallway, Sansa walked to the person that gave her comfort in her darkest times. The cracked wooden door stood imposing, though it did not need a Stark symbol encrusted on it to be snarling at her. The heavy iron details screamed for her to leave, but it only made her want to stay even more. 

 

 

Her fist knocked gently, not wanting to surprise Jon, or wake up her nephew. Silent footsteps stopped next to her, a tiny figure resting at her side, “Can’t sleep?” Arya asked.

 

 

“No.” Sansa hardly slept, the nightmares made it impossible.

 

 

“Me either,” 

 

 

A loud rumble erupted from the door, iron creaking and wood splintering as it opened. Tired eyes peered at them, hair mangled together as a babe chewed on it. Jon’s only response was too fully open the door and step to the side. 

 

 

The room was worse than she thought. A flat mildew and damp smell, and hard stone everywhere. Almost if she were housed in a cell, mayhaps that’s even why mother put her in here, Jon had been on trial her entire life before leaving. There was no hearth in here either, just cold stone to keep her sheltered. 

 

 

“You get used to it. It’s not so bad after many years,” Jon said, covering Mairon and her upper body with a blue fabric. “He’s hungry,” she exclaimed, seeing Arya’s puzzled expression. 

 

 

Sansa stood watching as Jon lowered herself onto her small bed, she patted the spots next to her, leaning back to lay down, “Come on, my cute little sisters.” 

 

 

Arya and Sansa nearly pounced onto her, nestling into her sides and smelling the familiar scent of her. Jon’s hand caressed her hair, scratching lightly at her scalp. “What troubles you, sisters?”

 

 

“I don’t want to be here, one lifetime is enough for me,” Arya bluntly said, Jon not even batting an eyelash at that. 

 

 

“I do owe you my life, Arya, so maybe the godsthought I needed to pay my debt before departing completely.” 

 

 

“That’s stupid.” 

 

 

“Best I could do,” Jon shrugged, face contorting in a look of pain. 

 

 

Sansa immediately sat up, “What wrong, Jon?” 

 

 

“Well, Sansa… Mairon’s teething and it hurts a fuckton.” 

 

 

“Why?” 

 

 

Arya huffed out, “Use your head, Sansa. Mai’s practically chewing her teat off, probably hurts like a bitch,”

 

 

Sansa grew red, stammering as she said, “Arya!” 

 

 

Jon shrugged again, “She isn’t wrong…” 

 

 

“You shouldn’t be so crude about it though…” 

 

 

“Shut up, Sansa, don’t be such a prude,” 

 

 

“Don’t tell me what to do, Arya,”

 

 

“Girls…” Jon started, looking at the both of the with stern eyes, “Go to sleep, I’m here. I promise I won’t leave.” 

 

 

“Jon,” they whined in unison.

 

 

“Sleep. Or I’m kicking you out.” 

 

 

Arya and Sansa soon fell into darkness at the sound of Jon’s soft song.

 

 

….. 

 

 

** EDDARD OF HOUSE STARK  **

 

“You let that-that,  bastard , have too much free rein! You allowed her to talk to me that way! Your wife, the lady of this house! How dare you! You’re too soft. Do you think that Brandon would ever let this happen!” Catelyn screamed, veins popping out of her temples, face red from exertion.

 

 

His patience trickled down his spine to the floor, he swore he was a calm fellow, but this was something he won’t stand for. “Catelyn.  _ Mind .  Your .  Tongue _ . You forget yourself, Lady Catelyn. That is _my_ child , under _my_ protection . Should I see it worthy to punish, I will do so. Otherwise, know your place.” Ned spoke in a deathly calm voice, staring Catelyn straight in the eyes. 

 

 

Her nostrils flared and teeth bared, Catelyn knew when to stop, but this was not a time for her. “Lord Stark! Every-time it comes to that bastard, you roll over and show your belly. You’re nothing but a coward with no spine! Mayhaps that’s the real reason of why you died.” She snarled, eyes blazing with fury. 

 

 

Ned stood abruptly, body towering over hers. His teeth bared and eyes made of steel. Catelyn walked back in shock, he’d never looked this way at her before. He advanced as she moved backwards into a wall. 

 

 

“Do you want to know the truth, Lady Catelyn? Should I tell you the biggest lie, that I’ve kept for half of my life? Should I confess and worry that you will tell half the kingdom in day? Should I trust you, Lady Catelyn?” Ned seethed. 

 

 

Her eyes widened in fear at the sight of him. “You see, Lady Catelyn... Jona Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell, is not a bastard after all. All the horror and embarrassment you put Jon through, it was for nothing. Do you want me to tell you’ve what you’d been waiting for throughout our entire marriage? I didn’t fuck Jon’s mother, I didn’t put my cock near Jon’s mother, and frankly, I’m not into that shit. I did not ever have another woman besides you in our marriage. Do you want me to tell you who Jon is? Hmm?” 

 

 

A choked sob came out of her, tears flowing down her face, “Jon is the true heir to the Iron Throne. The true-born daughter to Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Lady Lyanna Stark. Jon is Jaesenya Targaryen, of the Houses Targaryen and Stark. And, _my_ daughter . I advice you to never say a word against her in my presence or anyone else’s if you want to keep your head.” 

 

 

Catelyn slid down the wall in a mushed heap, sobs raking through her body, tears pouring down. She couldn’t do anything to stop it. 

 

 

Ned stalked out of the room, heading off the only thing that welcomed him at the moment; the red leaves and tears that still glowed in the darkest of nights.

 

 

.....

 

 

** P.O.V UNKNOWN **

 

Across the Narrow Sea, a gasping man woke within a dark room. His breath was limited, his chest filled with a million pieces. His skin wet and clammy, eyes broken and berserk. Terror arose within the man, at the prospect of his life and family. He’d only known that he lay gasping in a shoreline of water, watching as the blood poured out of him like droplets of rubies.

 

 

Rough hands caressed his face, allowing himself to believe it was his mother one last time. The strange room he lay situated on the floor, smelt of spices he’d never come across of, and the light after smell of sweet wine. Expensive wine. Fabrics lined the glass windows and spread across a bed frame. Open frames led to the balcony, overlooking some city he’d never seen.

 

 

His chest felt deflated, he defiantly thought his lungs would burst if he took a deep enough breath. He wanted to die.

 

 

All the horrors he’d condemned to the Seven Kingdoms… The war built on a lie. 

 

 

The horrors he’d put onto his poor wife and children... He’d take it all back, but mayhaps something’s would stay the same. Hopefully they forgave him, he wouldn’t put it past him if they didn’t. He couldn’t forgive himself, to ask forgiveness would be too much. 

 

 

The man propped himself on his elbows, slowly hobbling himself forward. A fruit tray lay on the table, filled with exotic fruits imported from only Essos. He plucked a grape from the plate, popping it in his mouth with a loud suck. 

 

 

He glanced over to the overlarge bed in the middle of the room, draped with various colored silks. A man with moonlight lit hair sat staring at him with a weird expression on his face. He looked an awful lot like him, mayhaps it was a mirror. He extended his arm to the table and grabbed a grasp, tossing it at the man who sat on the overzealous bed. 

 

 

The grape hit his forehead, and the other man blinked at him, “What the fuck?” The man said, rubbing his forehead and staring at him like he was a dragon.

 

 

“Huh,” 

 

 

“Is this a dream?” The man asked, touching his foot to the post holding the bed up. 

 

 

“I don’t know yet.” He replied, touching his quivering hands to the furniture around the room.

 

 

“Why are you touching my shit?” 

 

 

“How do you know if it’s yours, if you don’t even know it’s not a dream,” 

 

 

“I know because it’s my room! That I have no idea why I’m here…” the man whispered to himself. 

 

 

“If it’s your room, where are we?” He asked, scratching his scalp and pondering the room.

 

 

“Pentos.” The man stared blankly at a wall, eyes filled with a thousand and one emotions.

 

 

“Pentos, hmm…” He looked at the man who sat aimlessly on the bed, “What is your name?” 

 

 

The man looked up, he could now see the definite resemblance between them, “Daeron Targaryen,” Daeron whispered. “…And yours?”

 

 

He stood shocked that there was another Targaryen he hadn’t known about, was it a half-brother? A cousin? Mayhaps it was just a dream… “Rhaegar Targaryen.” 

 

 


	4. T is for Trauma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holaaaa! good thing i never said that i was uploading weekly, because… 
> 
> i have been very busy with zero time to write, but i wanted to get this chapter out. it’s rushed, but it should be good for now. 
> 
>  
> 
> i will try to write as much as i possibly can, school is starting again and i have too much summer homework. 
> 
>  
> 
> hopefully you enjoy, shorter chapter, there’s not much to it besides the targ brother bonding. but, onto the show —>

_** DAERON OF HOUSE TARGARYEN ** _

 

“—and the next thing that I can remember is a giant war-hammer coming down onto my chest and water up my nose. Mayhaps the trauma was removed from my brain, I don’t remember any pain, or anything for that matter.” sighed Rhaegar, tan hands wiping suspiciously misty eyes.

 

 

Daeron tried his best to be enthralled by his long-lost brother’s story, he really did. Jon would be proud of him for sitting still for more than an hour. But, Rhaegar knew how to elongate a story to its full potential, a rounded up summary would not suffice,  no , he had to recite a three-hour long sob story. 

 

 

He felt no sympathy towards the older man, he’d graciously brought it all down on himself. Daeron had flaws himself, but this was a glorious fuck-up that not even he had the pleasure of having. There was something about leaving his wife for another woman that left him with a sour taste in his mouth. 

 

 

Daeron sighed, wiping his tired eyes with the meat of his hand, “Thank you for telling me, brother. I know how hard it must have been… it warms my heart to have you personally share it with me.”

 

 

“Thank you for the kind words, brother. I must say that it’s a pleasure to finally meet you… mother’s pregnancy was a surprise to all, even herself.” Rhaegar said, eyeing Daeron’s weary gaze.

 

 

The thought of his birth disgusted Daeron, he was a product of rape, an action that condemned the user to an eternity of hell. He couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable with the subject, twitching nervously on the edge of the bed. “What was she like? Mother, I mean,” Daeron muttered, his voice timid and breath soft. “Did she want me?” 

 

 

“Oh, little brother…” Rhaegar soothed, “There is no reason for you to be ashamed of yourself, none at all. Mother loved you, loved all of us, more than life itself. Aerys did despicable things to her body, but never once did she give up or blame it upon her children, she was a strong woman, stronger than most. She would not want to see you like this, Daeron. You were the light of her life, all of us were, even little Viserys and his tantrums.” His hand came down upon Daeron’s shoulder, harder than it should with the delicate injuries marring it. 

 

 

Viserys’s name triggered trauma for him, past and future. He was going to be a pain in the ass, that was for certain. He didn’t know if he could last a day with his nasally tone.

 

 

Daeron groaned aloud, picking himself up despite the screaming of his muscles. He padded across the floors, soft Myrish carpeting softening the blow. “Shit, shit, shit. Fuck,” He whispered, placing a hand on his head.

 

 

Rhaegar looked concerned when he glanced up at him, “Is there something wrong, Daeron?” 

 

 

_“No! Our mad brother will be fine with this entire thing! No tantrums, no screaming, no nothing! It will be fun! I promise,” he mentally screamed._

 

 

His eye twitched as he reassured Rhaegar, “Everything is fine, yes. It’s just… Viserys can be a bit, difficult… at times.” 

 

 

Rhaegar deadpanned him, and ran a hand through his hair, “Is he mad?” he murmured.

 

 

“Yes,” Daeron said simply, sighing at thechange of plans and level of difficulty that his two brothers would make, he wondered if it was worth it in the end. Rhaegar perhaps, but Viserys?  No . Unless he was whipped into place, but that would take effort he was not willing to give. Maybe Rhaegar would take him, now that he had potentially an entire realm after him, plus a daughter who’d be after him the moment his name left Daeron’s lips. 

 

 

He missed his wife, from the stern glower to the loud laughs. She was a whirlwind, a mixture of polar opposites, but it always blended together so nicely. He couldn’t help but love her more for it.

 

 

Daeron hadn’t mentioned her to Rhaegar, he couldn’t find himself to want to. He knew he wants to know about his son more than anything, but some part of Daeron felt Rhaegar didn’t deserve it. Though it was not his place to decide whether he did or didn’t. 

 

 

The shadows played across the room, moonlight slowly fading as it turned dawn, room lightening with a warm breeze. He didn’t have a lot of time, and it was a good thing he’d gotten strategic mentoring from Jon, otherwise, he’d be fucked. 

 

 

He scurried around for a tunic, and everything soft and silky, something he had forgotten the feeling of from the eternal winter winds. Though Daeron had lived in the North for close to a year, it felt a lifetime. He was happy, but that happiness was taken away from him. 

 

 

His hands pulled up on random trousers, lacing them up quickly and scrambling for slippers. Daeron looked a mess, mismatched and out of order, but he could hardly care less. 

 

 

Glancing back, Daeron decided Rhaegar looked fine. The black hid the blood stains, and his hair could be easily hidden by fabric, the same as his. 

 

 

“What are you doing?” asked Rhaegar, watching his little brother prance around like a fool. 

 

 

“We’re leaving, come. Don’t ask questions.” replied Daeron, dark eyebrows furrowing into annoyance. 

 

 

He took two steps towards Rhaegar and shoved a tunic over his head, pulling back to create a cover for the silver head of hair. Rhaegar made a sound of annoyance, batting his hands away, “Wha-“ 

 

 

“Shush, follow me.”

 

 

Daeron quickly snatched two cloaks, grabbing a silky bag and tossing any valuables into it. He pushed Rhaegar towards the door, nearly hitting the handle off it to open. With Rhaegar in front of him, he took the opportunity to seize his dagger from his back scabbard, twirling the weapon around, “Sorry,” he apologized. 

 

 

Based on previous knowledge, he knew two guards would be posted between his and Viserys’s room. He asked for forgiveness to whatever gods there were for the actions he was about to commit. 

 

 

He motioned for Rhaegar to follow him, stepping out of his door to step into the clay filled hallway. Rich spices and herbs penetrated his nose, making him wince at the sheer absurdity of it. His gag reflex quivered and eyes shook, “Good gods,” he muttered. 

 

 

The windowless hallway promised no light, except for dim lanterns in the corners of the hallway. He signaled for Rhaegar to put his hood up, cloaking themselves within the dark would increase their chances of successfully kidnapping Viserys. 

 

 

Slipper-clad feet silently tiptoed past the gold covered artifacts and exotic plants. Rhaegar’s boots made little sound, but he seemed to clunk around everywhere. His body seemed to remember which way to go, his head, not nearly as much.

 

 

The first guard stood two meters away from him, straighter than a sword and harder than a dragon’s chest. The spear stared at him with a nasty grin baring it’s teeth. His skin was damp under the dim light, the humidity breathing down everyone’s back. 

 

 

Daeron closed his eyes and prayed, hoping his subpar strategy would work. As quietly as he could, he took a piece of jewelry from the silken bag and chucked it across the room, hitting a vase next to the guard. It did nothing to shatter it, rather banging the metal enough to make a sound. 

 

 

He took the opportunity of the guards back being turned to run behind him, clapping a hand over his mouth and wrapping a strong arm around his midsection and arms. “I’m sorry.” Daeron murmured, letting the dagger slide across the thin skin of the guard’s throat. He reminisced over the blood glazing down his arm, warming the clammy skin to the bone. 

 

 

His eyes snapped to the next guard, ten meters away, and blissfully unaware of his comrades death. 

 

 

Daeron couldn’t help but sigh, “I hope you’re worth it, Viserys.” he whispered.

 

.....

 

**_ JON OF HOUSES TARGARYEN AND STARK _ **

 

Sleep would not come to her, nor grace her with the gentlest touch. Jon stared at the the damp ceiling for hours until finally deciding to leave the room. 

 

 

She left Mairon to curl up in the middle of the two Stark Sisters, not wanting to subject him to the bite of the North. 

 

 

Paths were illuminated by the full moon, casting a glow to every surface it touched. The stared down in wonder at the tall woman wandering in the dark, aimlessly looking for something. 

 

 

Her cloak dragged through the wet dirt, mud smushed in the crevices of too small boots. Sweat poured and froze on her forehead, Jon’s hands sifting through the gritty dirt of the weirwood, it’s face staring in disappointment. The dirt beneath her nails bothered Jon, but it was a small price to pay for the fortune she would find. 

 

 

Jon did not find herself on her knees very often, much less in the dirt, though there has been a handful of times where desperate times called for desperate measures. Small rocks were embedded into her knees as she worked tirelessly in the moonlight. 

 

 

The box underneath the weirwood was about the worst idea that someone could come up with, especially when you are trying to look non-suspicious. The weeping tree seeped red sap into her hair, and she silently twitched for what her hair would turn into when dry. Her fingernails started to peel from the blunt force of the dirt, she had less than a foot left to dig up, she only hoped that nobody would wander over to where she was. 

 

 

It hadn’t been over an hour, but Jon already felt weary. Her back ached and bones weary, she felt nauseated and wanted to eat some bread. Any food right now would make her vomit, and bitter was she for that. Jon wanted it all over with.

 

 

She clawed and clawed her way through the dirt, actions becoming blurry and disorganized. “Fucking hell,” Jon muttered.

 

 

Sticks cracked against one another, splintering into the ground, the sound came too close for comfort. “Jona?” 

 

 

Jon instantly calmed, Lord Stark’s voice whispering into the night gave her far greatercomfort than she would like. 

 

 

She turned around, knees still digging painfully into the ground, “Lord Stark,”

 

 

“What are you doing?” he questioned, eyeing the ground and dirt surrounding her. 

 

 

Jon hummed, turning back to her newly dug burrow, “Nothing of too much importance.” 

 

 

“Ah. I see…” 

 

 

Awkward silences were always the worst, especially with the person who raised you. You feel the need to apologize for a reason unknown. Jon wouldn’t apologize though, there was no need to. 

 

 

When her nails hit wood, she let out a triumphant shout, lips curling into a smile. She took her heel and stomped, breaking the wood with a loud crack. Inside held the possessions she only found towards the later end of the war.

 

 

Carefully removing the scraps of wood and debris, Jon stuffed her forearms in the deep chest, already coming in contact with the treasures. 

 

 

Three large, round eggs made contact with herwith an icy freeze. Wincing, she yanked it out of the box and ground, dropping as soon as it was out. 

 

 

Her preferred egg was the biggest and most beautiful to look at, with a pure white body and dark red veins running through it. The other two, more exotic. A dark purple egg with lavender veins running through it, swirling in a stormy pattern, and the last, a dark grey body with lighter grey veins coursing through the outer edges.

 

 

“The last of the ice dragons, here in my hands.” she mused aloud, hearing Lord Stark’s boots crunch behind her. 

 

 

“How did you find out about these?” he questioned, crouching down next to her and putting a hand out to touch them. 

 

 

“Bran.” 

 

 

“Oh.” His hand caressed the cold scales, looking at her for permission to hold it. 

 

 

She nodded her head at him, handing him the purple egg to carry. “Be careful, their especially cold. Even for the truest of Northerners.” Jon side-eyed him. 

 

 

His frown became apparent, lips tilting downwards in a harsh sense. “I’m sorry, Jon. I should have told you… something told me I should have. I was scared, Jon. The truth is something I held for so long, I wanted to protect you and your mother. There was nothing more in this world that she held more dear then you.” 

 

 

Jon sat silent in the dark, snow dancing around her head and cold winds gusting her hair out of her face. She stayed that way until it got uncomfortably quiet. 

 

 

“I do not blame you, Lord Stark. You did what you thought was right, and you lived with your decision. In the end, it doesn’t matter who told me or how I came to know, all that matters is that I know. You protected my mother and Rhaegar’s love, their secret that caused wars.You kept that promise, Lord Stark. You can let go of all the weight that came with it now. The stress, the memories, let it go.” 

 

 

Her hand paused before it laid on his fur-clad shoulder, her fingers gripping into the muscle. “I still care deeply for you, Lord Stark. Nothing will ever change that.” Jon whispered.

 

 

Lord Stark’s eyes became misty, he quickly blinked it away and patted the hand on his shoulder. “Tell me of your husband, Jon.”

 

 

Jon let out a laugh, lips curling into a dimples grin, “Daeron? How to explain my husband…” she tapped her chin in mock thought.

 

 

“Daeron is… a little shit. He lives to annoy me at all times, constantly pinching the back of my arm, pulling my hair at random occasions, misplacing all my stuff. He is constantly talking, his mouth never stops running no matter what. Mayhaps that’s what also made him king... Daeron indulges in sweets, preferably lemon cakes or sherbet. He hates ale, with a passion, the first time I gave some to him, he nearly vomited on my shoes. His preferred side of the bed is the left, and he likes sleeping with two pillows behind his head and one clutched in his arms. He has a fascination with Ghost, and Ghost feels the same way, I fear they love each other more than me. Daeron has a tick whenever someone talks for too long, his fingers violently twitch and his tongue darts out of his mouth. He likes to be clean at all times, and he constantly cleans everything around him. Daeron’s also an impatient little bastard.” Jon rambled on with a large grin on her face.

 

 

She continued, “He’s also the best man I’ve ever met… besides you. Daeron knows where his heart and loyalties stand, his decisions rationalized for fairness on all sides of the party… sometimes. He’s fair, generous, kind. But stern, he’s never been one to get pushed around. I believe he will be one of the best Kings that Westeros has ever seen, I believe in him, with all my heart.” 

 

 

Lord Stark glances at her with fondness in his eyes, “You love him very much, don’t you?” 

 

 

“Of course, he is my soulmate. I will love him for eternity and beyond.” 

 

 

“It’s nice to see love like that, it reminds me of myself once.” Lord Stark whispered.

 

 

Jon raised an eyebrow at him, “Lord Stark… you loved a maid other than Lady Stark?” 

 

 

“Whoever said it wasn’t Catelyn?” he questioned, a teasing grin on his face.

 

 

“The look in your eyes says it all, Lord Stark.” 

 

 

Jon thought it was quite sad that Lord Stark was denied his love, she supposed that their was too many of them in this world, repressed of their lover. She didn’t know what she would do if she had been forced to marry one of the Northern Lords, though Jon had always been stern and set in her decisions. 

 

 

She closed her eyes and listened to the trees howl in the wind, “Will you tell me of her?” 

 

 

“No, I don’t think I will,” Lord Stark said softly. 

 

 

Jon cracked open an eye and huffed out a laugh, holding her hand out for the egg sitting beside him. She didn’t know how she would carry the eggs back without looking suspicious, she really could have planned better. 

 

 

“I have a favor to ask, or request, Lord Stark.” Jon asked.

 

 

Lord Stark turned towards her, “What is it, Jon?”

 

 

“I need you to call the Banners. Not for war or anything, but you need to call them for a meeting. Every Lord and his sons, even the bastards.” she stated urgently. 

 

 

“Whatever for? Is there something wrong?” 

 

 

“Just start writing the letters, Lord Stark. You’ll find out soon enough. I have a feeling neither of us will be getting much sleep in the coming weeks.” 

 

 

“If that is your request, then I shall start as soon as I can.” 

 

 

Jon stood, putting the crushed wooden box with three valuable eggs under her arm. She offered him her hand, callouses meet callouses. He looked at her with sad eyes as their hands met, her hands were rougher than his. “Have a good night, Lord Stark.” 

 

 

“You too, Jon.” he whispered to the night as he watched the dark figure retreat. 

 

.....

 

**_ DAERON OF HOUSE TARGARYEN _ **

 

Sticky red fluid ran down his hands and stuck to his silk tunic. It wasn’t supposed to be such a messy affair, but there had been more than he originally anticipated, the least he could appreciate was the fact their deaths were quiet.

 

 

Rhaegar seemed spooked, the white of his hair a glow in his peripheral vision. He stared at the wall whilst Daeron stained his hands with innocent blood. It was only three; but that was three lives on him, that are forever ended. They had once names, memories, brothers, sisters. 

 

 

He wiped his hands on his pants, motioning for Rhaegar to follow him. “Don’t be startled at his behavior, brother. He wasn’t always this way.” he muttered, opening the orient door of the devil’s lair. 

 

 

Viserys lay peacefully, face towards him. The entitled attitude and madness dropped completely, only a light frown marred it. Golden-white hair lay splayed across his pillows, and a spare blanket clutched to his chest. 

 

 

Daeron heard Rhaegar gasp from behind him, muttering something to himself. 

 

 

He stepped lightly towards his brother, careful not to wake him up. Daeron poked his brothers cheek. A twitch spasmed in his eyebrow, but otherwise, not waking. Another poke, this time to the forehead and more violent. “Viserys, wake up.” Daeron whispered harshly. 

 

 

“Daeron, what the fu-“ he muttered groggily before getting a hand slapped over his mouth. 

 

 

He immediately woke up, eyes widening at the sight of his younger brother looking so… old. Daeron held a finger to his lips, a silent command to keep quiet. 

 

 

Though Viserys was never one to follow his lessers orders. He thrashed in his grip, kicking and punching at Daeron. He harshly spoke into his hand, the only thing legible being the word ‘dragon’.

 

 

“Rhaegar,” Daeron whispered as loud as he could, “Sit on his legs, hurry!” 

 

 

Rhaegar looked to protest for a moment before deciding against it. He plopped himself down on Viserys, holding onto his knees. 

 

 

He sighed out, “Viserys, stop. There will be consequences if you keep this up.” 

 

 

Daeron pulled his hand from Viserys’s mouth for a second, seeing if he would yell. 

 

 

“As if I would take orders from you!” he yelled, biting Daeron’s hand. 

 

 

“Alright… you asked for it.” He put his hand over Viserys’s mouth again and balled up his other fist, bringing it down onto Viserys’s dick. 

 

 

He instantly recoiled, hunching himself as best as he could with grown adults sitting on him. Tears welled up in his wild lilac eyes. 

 

 

“Will you stop now?” Daeron asked, looking over at Rhaegar, who seemed to be deep in thought. 

 

 

Viserys only groaned in response. 

 

 

“Viserys, we need to leave, now. I’ll explain it to you later, but you need to pack up your stuff, preferably light.” 

 

 

He let a stray tear fall out of his eye, “I’m not doing anything for you. I do not take orders from you.” Viserys spat.

 

 

“I’ll hit you in the balls again.” 

 

 

This made Viserys think for a moment, closing his moisture ridden eyes. “You think you can bully me into submission?” 

 

 

Daeron shrugged, “I’m not the one who’s getting sat on. Plus, I can just leave you here, I have no obligation to bring you along.” 

 

 

“I am to be your King!” 

 

 

“About that, your not. Rhaegar has a daughter, who’s living, therefore the heir to the Iron Throne.” 

 

 

“She’s just a bastard! Nothing but a product of infidelity with a Northern slut who couldn’t keep her whore legs close.” 

 

 

It wasn’t his hand to slam into Viserys’s dick this time, Rhaegar put his full rage into that swing. Viserys’s face contorted and looked to be nauseated. “Stop! Stop! I’m sorry!” he begged. 

 

 

“Get up and pack your shit, Viserys.” Daeron commanded, eyes narrowing. 

 

 

Viserys moaned, “I can’t move!” 

 

 

“Yes, you can. Hurry up before I cut your fucking dick off.” Rhaegar snarled. 

 

 

“Who are you to command me!” Viserys demanded. 

 

 

Rhaegar went red, even with the mask of night covering him, “Your elder brother, Rhaegar!” he growled. 

 

 

Viserys let out a bitter laugh, “You dare use my brother’s name in your conquests?” 

 

 

“Look at me yourself, Vis! Look at me!” 

 

 

Viserys refused, curses coming from his mouth like a waterfall. “Don’t command me, you peasant.”

 

 

“That’s it! Daeron pack your brothers stuff., I’m tired of this.” Rhaegar seethed, clenching his fists together. 

 

 

Rhaegar swung his fist back and knocked out Viserys cold. 

 

 

“Oh, wow.” Daeron commented, moving to Viserys’s chest of clothing and stuffing random articles into his own bag. 

 

 

“Shush.” 

 

 

“I didn’t say anything.” he declared.

 

 

Rhaegar stood stoically at the doorframe, Viserys thrown over his shoulder. “You never said that my child was still alive.” 

 

 

“You never asked.” Daeron said casually, shrugging his question off.

 

 

“Most people would at least mention that their brother’s child was alive and well. Do you know her?” Rhaegar argued. 

 

 

Daeron laughed quietly, “Do I know her? Why, of course. What kind of husband would I be if I didn’t?” 

 

 

Rhaegar blinked twice at him, and stared at him blankly, “You are married to my daughter.” 

 

 

“I mean… yes, it’s only reasonable that we were. We have a child together, my little Mairon.” Daeron stated, smiling at the thought of his wife and child. “Come, we have a treasure room to loot.” 

 

….. 

 

_** SANSA OF HOUSE STARK ** _

 

The solar‘s air was thick, Mother and Father glaring at each other did no better to ease the silence. Broken blood vessels marked underneath her Mother’s eyes, something had gone wrong last night after they all split up. She refused to look at Jon, so Sansa had a good idea of what was told to her. 

 

 

Jon had a funny look on her face, a borderline uncomfortable pleading look. Arya’s hands were wrapped tightly around her armrests and Robb looked hungover. Rickon and Bran sat together with blank looks on their faces. It wasn’t looking good for any member of the Stark House. 

 

 

“I don’t think I am a good person to relay the tales of Westeros, I was at the wall most of the time. I am, however, qualified for the latter of the time in Westeros.” Jon stated, fidgeting with Mairon’s hair.

 

 

“I feel qualified, Jon.” Bran briefly said, like he already knew the answer. 

 

 

Jon motioned for him to go forth with his summary. 

 

 

“To put the history in simpler terms, I will sum it up in a short summary.” he said, looking towards the fire. “After your death father, these were the key events. Daeron Targaryen hatches a clutch of dragon eggs by burning a pyre with his brother’s dead body, he goes in with the eggs, becoming a true dragon and therefore, immune to fire. The North and South go to war, Robb Stark is crowned King in the North and wins key battles. Renly Baratheon is killed by Stannis Baratheon and his fire priest, sparking the Battle of the Blackwater; which was to try and seize King’s Landing and take the throne from Joffrey. Robb makes a vow to the Frey’s to marry one of his daughters in exchange for use of his bridge. Theon takes Winterfell. Robb doesn’t follow through and pledges Uncle Edmure instead. Sansa marries Tyrion in an attempt for Lannisters to take control of the North via Sansa. The Red Wedding; Walder Frey, Roose Bolton, and the Lannister make a pact and murder Robb, Mother, Talisa and their unborn child, and the rest of the Stark forces there. The Bolton’s take Winterfell, and Ramsay, Roose’s bastard, brutalizes Theon as his own toy. Jamie Lannister loses his hand.” Bran pauses. 

 

 

“Joffrey weds Margaery Tyrell, but is later poisoned at the feast, by Olenna Tyrell. Tyrion is falsely imprisoned and Sansa a prime suspect. Daeron Targaryen overthrows the Old Masters Of Slavers Bay, with his army of Unsullied and dragons. Tyrion has a trial, The Lannisters deem him guilty and sentenced to death, but Tyrion demands a trial by combat. Oberyn Martell and The Mountain fight, Oberyn as Tyrion’s champion. Oberyn almost wins but is later killed by the Mountain. Jon is named the first Lady Commander of the Nights Watch die to her bravery and leadership. Cersei helps reinstate the Faith Militant, that backfired completely. The High Sparrow takes control of King’s Landing. Ramsay marries Sansa when Littlefinger sold her to the Bolton’s. Ramsay kills Roose and his son from his other wife, Walda.” Bran says, taking a breath. 

 

 

“Jon is… murdered. A mutiny at Castle Black. But, is later resurrected by the Red Priestess. Daeron takes control of the Dothraki. King Tommen and Queen Margaery join the Faith of the Seven after Margaery and her brother are imprisoned due to crimes against the church. Baelon is murdered by Euron his brother, and Euron is crowned King of the Ironborn. Which leads to the children of Baelon to allying themselves to Daeron. Jon and Ramsay declare war against one another, sparking The Battle of the Bastards. Jon wins, obviously, with the help of the Wildlings. Cersei becomes the Mad Queen and blows up the Sept of Baelor, killing Lord Mace and Ser Loras, the Faith Militant, and Kevan Lannister, and Tyrell Forces. Margaery escapes with her mother, brother, and grandmother. Tommen commits suicide thinking that his mother killed his wife. Leaving Cersei the throne. Jon is declared Queen in the North, gathering several nicknames due to her ferocity in battle and the avenging of the Starks, Jon also wiped out most of the Boltons, killing Ramsay. Daeron sails to Westeros, arriving on Dragonstone-“ 

 

 

“That’s enough, Bran. Let them recover.” said Jon, cutting off Bran.

 

 

Father, Mother, and Robb looked ashen, skin pale and blotched. Father seemed he was going to fall over in his chair and collapse, “All of that… happened?” 

 

 

“I left out a few parts here and there, but yes.” Bran said. 

 

 

“I know it’s a lot to take in.” Jon said quietly. “Everyone can tell you their stories at different times.” 

 

 

Lord Stark laughed bitterly, “Please, do keep going.” 

 

 

“That’s enough for today. If you wish it, the Stark children can tell you their stories, but I wish to retire.” Jon sat up, and bowed her head in goodbye. 

 

 

He looked to Bran expectantly, pushing him to continue.“This is where it gets… complicated.” said Bran, rubbing his fingers together. “I shall tell the whole story in detail.”

 

 

Arya and Sansa groaned mentally. 

 

 


	5. Dead Man’s Float

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have nothing to say for myself except that i work too much with too little time. poor time management check :))) so first things first, i’d like to apologize for such a delay, i don’t understand either, i rewrote and rewrote this chapter so many times it probably could have been a whole novel itself. probably because i contemplated on whether or not i should give up on this, but i’ve decided to hang on and work through my mental debates of how shit this story is every time i re-read it. one day, i’ll go back and edit it but not anytime soon. 
> 
> recently i’ve come to the realization that i should not make multiple povs within a single chapter, its just not working and i believe the story will come out waay better if i just stick to a singular pov every chapter, and it will advance much faster. i will most certainly not have another break as long as the last one was, and for that i apologize again. 
> 
> thank you for the people that stayed so long, i appreciate that you stayed for so long :))  
> i hope the chapter lives up to your expectations and i am sorry if it doesn’t, i don’t trust my judging skills any more :// 
> 
> oh! long chapter as well, so enjoy!

_**JAIME OF HOUSE LANNISTER** _

 

Jaime Lannister had never felt more pissed off and calmer in his whole life.

 

Calloused hands ran down the sides of his face, scrubbing up and down his newly grown beard. He’d had half a mind to cut it, just like his hair, but seeing the look on Cersei’s face made it all the reason not to.

 

He still hadn’t gotten used to both hands—oftentimes subconsciously using his left hand to write and eat with, not realizing that his dominant hand was right in front of him. Becoming ambidextrous greatly improved his swordplay, his left hand would never amount to be as good as his right, but its skill level was enough to stay on the Kingsguard, should he find himself in a position where he only had his left.

 

Somehow, it still came to mind that he would always be bested by the Snow bastard in the North—even if she may be a true-born Stark and Targaryen.

 

Her skill level was whispered about across the Seven Kingdoms as his days grew shorter. The North bellowed praises for their chosen Queen, the one who avenged the Red Wedding. They said how she killed one thousand men by herself and wore their blood as a victory cloak, donning it as she rode through their corpses on the back of Death. The South spit venom on her name, accusing her of being a traitorous barbarian who deserted the Night’s Watch.

 

Jaime couldn’t say he believed either one of those.

 

The Jona Snow he met was different from those whispers. Jaime instead met a calm, quiet individual, who did only what was best in the interest for her people, never rose a voice or beat on a table to get anyone’s attention, the whole room was already focused on her and her words. She silently observed her way through situations and correctly made the right choices, most of the time. There was no doubt that he met an intimidating, downright scary, woman, who towered over him and had more scars on her body than he ever did.

 

But, there was an endearing quality about her as a leader. Mayhaps it was her kindness, or selflessness, or downright recklessness; she still managed to come on top out of all the rulers he’d seen, even potential rulers like Rhaegar.

 

He fully believed that she could make a better place of this shit world, he would follow her and be whomever she wanted him to be.

 

And for that reason, he would get into some difficult situations—with the potential to become pretty awkward. Just like the one he was in now.

 

His father’s cold eyes fixated on him like never before, the flecked gold finally reflecting something like happiness. The Old Lion had him trapped, even if he had followed the bait willingly. A ringed finger drummed patronizingly on the side of his temple, “What made you change your decision, my son?” His voice irked Jaime, he took back what he said about happiness, the only thing he radiated was smugness.

 

There were many pros and cons about staying within the Kingsguard, but not enough to sway him. One of the many reasons was the control of power he would receive, and her.

 

Should she agree or remember the past life, he could finally take her as his Lady wife, he thought with a grin.

 

“A son cannot take up the offer that his father once gave him? If the offer still stands, however,” Jaime said, drawling out the last of his sentence. “Mayhaps it was a mistake to ask you of this, I apologize for wasting your time then.”

 

Tywin‘s mouth quirked up so suddenly it scared Jaime, he’d never seen his father with so much of a grin on his face. “On the contrary, son, you have neither made a mistake nor wasted my time. You accepting the offer couldn’t have been at a better time. But, you do know what it entails for you?”

 

“Of course, Father.” he answered, resting his left hand across his fork, “I only ask that I leave the Kingsguard after the journey to Winterfell.”

 

Tywin’s eyebrows shot up as he took a long gulp of wine, “Oh? And, why is that?”

 

Jaime used his head for the first time in years to search for a suitable answer that this Jaime would have said, “I’ve always wanted to see where the barbarians dwelled. The whispers have always been creative regarding the frost bitten head of Westeros. Grumpkins and Snarks sound terribly fun, wouldn’t it be a sight to see them?”

 

“I see.” he replied plainly, biting into a piece of venison. “Very well. I will speak with the King tomorrow at second meal. Be sure to have a discussion with Ser Barristan about it as well.”

 

Jaime bowed his head slightly and moved to get up, “Of course, Father. I will take my leave, have a good night.”

 

Tywin didn’t grace him with a reply or acknowledgement, only watching him from the corner of his eyes. “You’ve changed, Jaime. I can’t tell if it’s for the better, or worse.”

 

He stopped in his steps and put a hand to steady himself in the doorway, the slow grin rose upon his face as he turned to his father, “I guess we will have to wait and see,”

::

Bullshit.

 

That’s what he called, bullshit.

 

For a fortnight, Jamie watched as Ser Barristan the Bold struggled to get acclimated to society once more. Not that anyone else noticed, but Targaryens tended to have an effect on you. Once committed to one, you gravitate towards them all.

 

Jamie hadn’t told Ser Barristan about Jon, or Jaesenya rightfully.

 

There was never a good time to go up to the Prince’s old friend and tell him that his long-lost daughter was still alive and well, living as a bastard in the North. He couldn’t tell him that his King lay on the other side of the sea, about to be sold into whatever he was sold into. Jaime didn’t want to necessarily cause the poor old man any grief, but… tragedies were tragic.

 

He remembered the journey to Winterfell before; contrary to what it was beforehand, he could say he was much more observant this time around, and uncomfortable. Sleeping in the Queen’s quarters almost every night did not spare on luxuries, satins and feathered beds were a brief memory, soft skin as well.

 

It disgusted him. He disgusted him.

 

Jaime sighed and rubbed a smooth leather glove across his cheek, leaning his hip against the wooden post he was stationed at for the rest of the evening.

 

“Lannister,” Barristan said from across of him. “Falling asleep on the job already?”

 

“No,” he drawled out, “Just perpetually bored with it.”

 

Barristan’s armored clanked and swayed as he moved to stand next to him, “Is that why you are leaving your sacred oath to us? You are ‘bored’ with the job now?”

 

Jaime turned to face him, staring straight into his eyes, “I must support the King and Queen I believe in, and when the time comes, I will offer my assistance in any way. I am ready to make sacrifices in order to see their success. Will you, Ser Barristan?”

 

Barristan stiffened as straight as a greenboy’s cock on his first visit to a whorehouse. A wary hand traveled to the gleaming pommel of his sword, a suspicious eye side-glancing him. “What do you know, Ser Jaime.”

 

“More than you do,” he said with a grin. “Now is not the time to discuss such things, but if you wish it...”

 

He hummed, drumming his gloved fingers onto his thigh, “You believe in him? Just as I do?”

 

“I believe in the Queen, and by extension, him as well.” he addressed.

 

“And, who is this… Queen? By marriage, I assume.” Barristan guessed.

 

“By birthright.”

 

Barristan halted all movements, his eyes widening into a state of shock. Jaime could only imagine what was going through his mind. “What do you mean…” he said slowly.

 

“The dragon and wolf married. They had a child, a girl. She is perhaps the strongest woman I have ever met, both physically and mentally.” Jaime paused for a second, before adding, “Tallest, too.”

 

“I don’t believe you.” Barristan said in disbelief. “It can’t be,”

 

“Oh, but it is. You should see her face, the exact twin of the Prince, with the coloring of the wolf-girl. I almost fell on my sword when I first saw her, I was in disbelief. She then called me ‘a golden cunt’, because I offered to re-break her nose for her. It wasn’t broken...” Jaime reminisced fondly. “I developed a liking towards her. Very solemn and melancholic, but she has a certain charisma that pulls people in. Also the best swordsman, swordswoman?” he paused, pondering over the exact term. “Whatever, best swordsman I have ever seen, almost beats Ser Arthur Dayne, if not, already surpasses him.”

 

“Really?” Barristan mused. “She sounds like quite the woman.”

 

“And then some,” Jaime held out his arm for him to clasp, “We will talk about Kings and Queens later, Ser Barristan.”

 

Barristan looked down at the arm, pausing, before clasping it with his own hand, “I look forward to it.”

 

Jamie looked forward to it as well—but he’d never tell a soul that.

::

_**JON OF HOUSES TARGARYEN AND STARK** _

 

She never could guess why Arya was adamant against not wearing dresses. Jon herself never minded the comfortable ones.

 

A taffeta gown bunched around her waist as she leaned over the Lord of Winterfell’s desk. Ink-pots and quills were thrown around, books scattered across the polished wood surface, Jon couldn’t even see half the documents in front of her from the bleariness of her eyes.

 

The flared fur of her sleeves were stained with black ink from her papers. She was surprised the dress had even stayed apart this long from how much it started to fray from her sudden growth spurt. Small buttons had popped earlier from the strain of her picking up piles of leather bound journals.

 

Jon had thought the dress was nice too, which disappointed her since it was now tattered around the seams. The dress had hugged her figure, or at least what little figure she had, the blue fabric complimenting her pale skin. Long, flared sleeves lined with dyed fox furs almost trailed the floor—she once felt like a true Lady in that dress.

 

Now it was ruined.

 

She sighed out and put her hands over her eyes, trying to rub the sleep out of them to get the last of the documents done.

 

Heavy footsteps outside of the door alerted her to a presence. The steel handle buckled before being yanked open, a frazzled Lord Stark stood at the other side.

 

“Jon?” he asked with a bewildered look on his face. “What are you doing here so early in the morning?”

 

“I was afraid that I might have misled you to the wrong direction, Lord Stark. Thankfully, you didn’t write the Lords of the North yet. Right here-” Jon shook the documents in her hand, “are plans that hopefully you agree too, or at least accept the terms of.”

 

Lord Stark didn’t look even the slightest bit interested in the papers, only glaring at her in concern, “How long have you been up?”

 

“Too long,” she said lightly, standing up and making her way over to him. “I will go rest now, but at some point, you and Lady Stark will need to go over what I wrote. Some key actions will resolve around whether she believes the ideas are good or not.”

 

She placed a bony hand onto his shoulder, squeezing it in affection, “None of what I wrote will have to be agreed upon. However, I try to act in the best interest of the North. Think about the words of House Stark,”

 

Jon released him, squeezing past the small doorway and ducking her head. The destroyed buttons of her corset bouncing down in sync of her gait. Her hair danced around her thighs, loose curls frizzing out of the loose braids.

 

Lord Stark’s hand caught her, pressing down on her wrist softly, “We’ll be breaking our fast within the next half an hour, you should eat before you rest. If I remember correctly, today’s the day we get the direwolves pups.”

 

“I know,” she grinned, the thought of seeing her boy brought her a ray of happiness that could penetrate any worrisome she had acquired overnight, “I’ll consider if there is mint-leaf tea,”

 

He glanced up at her and smile, lightly patting her hand, “Of course, Jon,”

 

The pale crescents of her eyes sparkled in the low light before ducking out the door.

::

She was late by a half hour.

 

The food and drink had been served to the high-table, the servants and common-born that worked in the castle were already milling around, conversing with one another. The benches and tables filled to the brim with empty trays of food, plates and cutlery clanking; Jon had never seen the castle so happy since her rule, though the time she ruled wasn’t a happy one.

 

There must always be a Stark in Winterfell; it ensured the fairest rule.

 

Her tunic scratched against her unbound breasts, the once draping sleeves tight against her forearms. Mairon slept soundly against her bare skin, only body heat and thin fabric keeping him warm. Spittle had already dried down the side of her neck from his snores, his hair bounded at the nape of his neck brushed against her ear every time he moved. The chubby cheeks he gained from his father were starting to redden from the cutting wind blistering through the halls, she almost regretted rousing him from the cuddles he was receiving from his Aunt Arya.

 

She almost cried at the cuteness of them.

 

Jon couldn’t say that she was late on purpose, but she wasn’t necessarily aiming to be early. She aimed that the chances of slipping in unnoticed would be higher if she was late; and she was correct. The only food and drink left were oats and milk, and to her surprise, mint-leaf tea. Lord Stark did not lie.

 

Immediately reaching for the pot, she poured herself a large portion into the porcelain cup she nicked from Lord Stark’s office.

 

Jon breathed in deeply at the strong aroma of herbs and citrus in the tea. She grabbed a piece of bread from the constantly refilled basket at the center of the table, spreading a generous amount of honey on the top of it.

 

The moment her teeth sunk into the warm, plush bread, her title was called.

 

“Your Grace,” a tight voice said from the back of her.

 

Jon spun around fast, a piece of bread still hanging from of mouth and bulging out of her cheeks. Warm eyes stared expectedly at her, the corner of the girl’s mouth quirked up in a way that could only be described as mischievous.

 

Three strong women stood to the side of her, not quite the same towering height as Jon, but enough to scare the average man into soiling his breaches.

 

She quickly shoved the rest of the bread into her mouth and swallowed down the rest of her tea; Jon could never catch a break, anywhere.

 

“Ladies Mormont,” her voice cracked, making her face blister with shame, she gestured to the seats beside her, “It’s quite a surprise to see you here. What brings you to Winterfell?”

 

No matter how savage they looked, they sat with a lady’s grace.

 

Maege Mormont always scared her as a girl, the furrowed brow and sneer directed at the lords who were less fortunate than the others who respected her as a woman of power always brought out terror during bedtime. Robb and her had made jests about who was wider; Lord Manderly or the space between every man and Lady Mormont?

 

They had yet to determine the answer.

 

Daecy Mormont towered over most men and women, she was probably the only female that almost rivaled her in height. Lady Mormont also held more beauty than Jon, personally. With dainty features and smooth charisma, Jon would have definitely urged a proposal between Robb and her, if it weren’t for the alliances they needed.

 

Little Lady Lyanna was still as fierce as the day she charged into battle, eyes wild and stance ready—Jon could still remember the way her blood splattered against the pale walls of Winterfell. Lyanna died with glory that day, and was personally honored by Jon and Daeron with the other lords and ladies of the North.

 

Maege rasped out a wet wheeze that Jon struggled to keep a straight face at, “Straight to the point, I see.” she smiled, “I remember the last time I saw you, meek and reclusive, dressed from head to toe in black and matted furs. Pathetic little thing you were.”

 

Her words cut like a double-edged sword, both offensive and reassuring at the same time. “Now, I hear that Lord Stark harbored a secret queen who kills men without blinking an eye, and loyal to the North above all else. You could imagine my surprise when Lyanna informed me of that, especially with our support of the King in the North, Robb Stark.”

 

Jon hadn’t thought about the late Lords and Ladies that supported Robb during the War of the Five Kings. Though, she had no plans to usurp a title from Lord Stark or Robb, or become the Queen of the North again. That was a coincidence that shall not happen again.

 

“Being bestowed the title of the Queen of the North was an honor-“ Jon stopped, giving a slightly pointed look towards the older woman, “an honor I’m not looking to receive again. Being able to serve the North was one of my greatest accomplishments. Though, mayhaps Lord Stark’s and Robb will have a much happier reign than mine.”

 

Maege rumbled out a laugh, “However wonderful it was to serve the North, there will be Lords and Ladies to challenge your authority and influence—including myself.” From the side of her, Lyanna started spluttering retorts, only being stopped by a risen dry hand, “I have no reason to trust you, or swear fealty towards you. You, Jona Snow, are a nobody in my eyes. A nameless bastard hidden between the stable gates begging for her mother to save her. However harsh my words are...I will begrudgingly support your claim to the throne. Lord Stark is many things, a liar is not one of them. If he trusts you, then I suppose I will not argue with that.”

 

Jon eyebrows rose towards the ceiling, jaw clenching beyond belief at the woman’s words. A part of her expected the mistrust of the North, but she’d already faced it, one more time may make her lose her mind.

 

“Lady Mormont,” she started, breathing in deeply, “As much as I appreciate your words, I do not need to prove myself to you, or the rest of the Northern lords who still think of Targaryens as the plague. I know what Aerys did to the North, and what Rhaegar did to revolt against him, but I am not at fault for their sins. I guided the North when winter came, as did my ancestors. I may not carry the Stark name, but I have their blood. I know you wish to speak with Lord Stark, I recommend taking whichever reserves you have about me to Robb or him. Good-day.”

 

Daecy Mormont stood up abruptly, blocking her would-be path to the pantry in the kitchens, “Your Grace, we didn’t mean to offend. We were just sharing our… hesitation on what my little sister shared with us.” she mumbled.

 

Jon grinned at the mention of Lyanna, a tentative hand shot out to ruffle the top of her hair, braids going astray and a shrill voice giggling, “Your sister is an honorable Lady, one of the bravest I’ve ever seen,”

 

She made a move to step around the shorter woman, her heart still intent on getting the sticky buns they kept in the kitchen. Alas, Lady Alysane, who she had not noticed until now, blocked her path.

 

Lady Alysane was a heavyset woman, not very tall, but bulky enough to make a man pause before confronting her. Raking her eyes down her body, Jon could conclude that she wielded a sword, unlike her sister that wielded a spiked mace, a heavy little thing that required strength and dexterity. Alysane Mormont was built to handle the power of a sword, her hands calloused and arms muscled. Not as pretty as her sisters, but the creases by her eyes indicated a bright smile.

 

Patience was a virtue, and Jon needed to keep it.

 

“Lady Jona, please. We are here to offer a proposal,” Alysane said slowly.

 

Jon huffed a laugh out, “A proposal you say? Marriage?”

 

Lady Maege harshly whispered something in the background that her daughters chose to ignore. “Yes. We were wondering-“

 

“I’m flattered, truly, but I have no sway over the North or the decisions that Lord Stark makes regarding his heir. You’ll have to take it up with him.” Jon cut in, silencing them with a hand.

 

A lie, but a necessitated lie.

 

The sisters hesitated, mouths moving up and down in unspoken words. Mayhaps, they knew their place, now. Asking her for a proposal of the houses was nonsense. She would not force Robb into marriage that would not benefit the North, or the kingdom she may choose to rule. No matter the kingdoms she would one day be ruling over, Jon would always be unwaveringly loyal to the North and House Stark, even if it isn’t spoken out about.

 

Instead of speaking, they bowed whilst their mother stood with quivering fists and a cherry face. “Ladies Mormont, a pleasure as always,” Jon said with a smile, lightly bowing her head as she finally made her way to the sticky buns. “And Ladies, I hope you can keep quiet, we wouldn’t want anything going around.” she called out, not bothering to look back at the ladies.

 

Mairon gurgled against her chest, his tiny body wriggling around the wrap she secured around her shoulders. “Sweet boy, what are you doing? Hungry? I’m getting some sticky buns and I’ll let you have a taste, okay? Mayhaps, you’ll have a sweet tooth like your father,” she said offhandedly, stroking his hair through her shirt.

 

“Your father would call me a pig if he found out I kept snacking,” she whispered to him, letting her fingers trail against the sharp stone of the walls, nostalgia roaring through her bones, “Jokingly, of course. Though, he’s doomed to gain at least ten stone in the next five years. Dare I say, the next Robert Baratheon. The amount of sweets and bread he consumes… Mai, don’t end up like your father,”

 

The bitter kisses of the wind nipped at her cheeks, knotted furs around her neck rubbing into the sensitive skin. Glancing out the glazing, she put a hand to the glass, staring numbly at the dripping leaves of the weirwood. From above, it’s leaves and branches were beginning to sparse with age, as with any other living creature. The new life around it flourished, bluebells and chamomiles sprouting against the blood red sap. Though the pond wasn’t visible, she knew the little fishes that settled in there before she was born were jumping at the surface for bugs.

 

Common people milled around in the chill of the morning chill, some carrying crops imported from the South, and some lumbering wood from up north.

 

Jon wondered if she made a good decision in introducing proposals and propositions for the North to Lord and Lady Stark. Should she meddle in the well-being of just the North, or the entire kingdoms she is to be responsible of? A tough decision that she could not make; at least not by herself. But, Daeron wasn’t here, she couldn’t consult with him or have him advise her.

 

Rather, Jon chose to act in both. Not necessarily favoring either one, but, acting in both of their best interests.

 

Her suggestions would be favored by Lady Stark for sure, Southern ambitions would never leave her system fully, especially with the amount Jon included in the scrolls. She knew that there was still resentment harboring in that woman’s body, viscous and tearing through her veins at once. Jon is still surprised she hasn’t been assassinated or attacked at this point.

 

Jon’s propositions included this: an alliance with House Tyrell through a marriage of Lady Margaery and Robb, Lady Olenna still owed her a favor and this is when she would cash it in, a political alliance with Dorne through trade, and yet another debt that was owed to both Daeron and her, a brokering of a budding alliance through Stannis and the North, potentially through Rickon and Shireen, Lord and Lady Stark would probably decline that one, she thought. Jon would not suggest a marriage for Sansa, nor Arya, she had other ideas for Arya. Sansa was a sensitive subject, however, as a woman, Jon felt it in her best interest to not force Sansa into a marriage, she wanted her to find love on her own, to have someone to love her for her, and not treat her like a piece of meat to mate with.

 

Daeron and Jon’s marriage has been less than perfect—arguments and disagreements, petty remarks from Daeron’s side, insults from hers. Sometimes she couldn’t stand to look or be around him without imagining bashing his head in with a plate, other times Jon couldn’t stand to be away; even when in the same room. Their love was a whirlpool, a never ending tide that had its ups and downs.

 

Love is painful, love is hard, love is terrifying, to be brave is to love someone unconditionally without expecting anything in return. But, falling for the person who held you at your weakest and loved you at your worse could be one of the most heartwarming experiences you could imagine.

 

The best is the sticky buns she was about to enjoy.

 

Gooey sweet cream oozing down from the top of fresh rolls, doused heavily in honey and butter, and if she’s lucky, served with a goblet of summerwine and side of sweet oranges. She nearly fainted when Daeron presented her with that on their anniversary. Jon made sure to give him an extra special gift to reassure him of her thankfulness.

 

Bouncing in her step, she giddily made her way towards the doorway of the kitchens, itching to have some of the delicious delicacy she knew they had.

 

The sticky buns lay only a door away, one push is all it would take. Jon cooed as her finger tips hit the flimsy wooden door, lightly drumming to alert her presence.

 

Finally, the moment she has awaited for. Happiness was coming, and she was ready for it.

 

Huffing out an excited squeal she stepped into place, nudging the-

 

“Jon!” Slapping footsteps came her way, a squeaky voice broke down several octanes as they cleared their throat, “Father and Mother want to see us; they say it’s urgent,”

 

She scowled, fury making itself present onto all of her features. Her temples throbbed in an effort to stay calm, Jon’s nose quivering in a wince.

 

Fucking Robb…

 

::

_ **LADY CATELYN OF HOUSE STARK** _

 

Catelyn couldn’t control the irate twitch in her brow as she stared at the scrawl of the girl she’d for so long disdained. The loopy writing and ink blotches smeared half-heartedly on the scroll, some of the writing ineligible—un-befitting for a Lady, much less a Queen.

 

The whole situation had been cast onto Catelyn too quickly for her liking; to go from not being able to stand the woman in the same room with her, to having to kneel, or bow, to Jon seemed uncannily like divine justice.

 

Catelyn was a good and true lady, serving her House and Lord Husband alike to the best of her ability. For years, she’d dedicated herself to the Stark’s, adapting to their culture, respecting their religion, eating the same food, breaking the same fast, even dying for their cause. And, to be compensated in the means of the Snow Bastard was an insult from the Gods.

 

For half a fortnight, she’d been ignoring Lord Stark, his attempted conversations met with cool stares and cold silence. It infuriated her to even think about speaking with him, let alone looking at him. The scale of his lie was enough to put their entire family in danger, the risk of Robert finding out was a guaranteed death sentence, for the both of them, and if they were lucky, Jona herself as well.

 

But, now she read the words of the Bastard that threatened her life, and her children’s.

 

Catelyn would never admit to anyone that Jon seemed to be overall politically inclined. Each proposition worked in favor of the North, aiming in the Southern direction.

 

A marriage to the Tyrell’s would assure grain and crop for the winter that was approaching rapidly, as well as a noble heir. Beginning to cut ties between the Bolton’s and Frey’s were also a necessity.

 

It angered and pleased Catelyn to know that Arya slaughtered the Freys—only a small amount of smugness was cemented in her for Jona’s violent battle between the Boltons and the rest of the Houses that betrayed House Stark.

 

House Stark could never repay Jona, Sansa, or Arya for taking back Winterfell from the Boltons and the disgusting bastard of Roose.

 

“Lord Stark,” she started, holding up the gibberish she’d began to read, “What is this?”

 

His cool eyes landed on her, a rough hand swiping across his face, “Detailed strategies regarding warfare. Jon seems to be some type of a battle genius—those plans could never had touched the minds of even the most seasoned warrior.”

 

Catelyn couldn’t agree or deny his claim; how would a lady of her standing know anything about battle?

 

She did, however, know how to run a household and the plans within it.

 

To simply put it, there would be no planning for war coming from her side—but from an economic perspective? Catelyn could have Winterfell and it’s commoners running a siege for years if they had a steady stream of grain and good supplied for them.

 

Ensuring this marriage in the South to the Tyrell’s would grant them this and so much more. But, at what cost did this marriage mean to them?

 

The Northern Lords distrust? A revolt against House Stark? Another war? What could they possibly lose that was worse than last time?

 

She’d died for heaven sake—died for the North, and her children. She did not want to make the same mistakes again as she did last time.

 

Two steady knocks resonated around the room before creaky iron was forced open. Robb came in first with heavy eyes and thin skin—veins already protruding from the paper white skin underneath his eyes. Jona’s scraggly tunic and shaggy hair came in after her, a babe laid soundly across her chest.

 

“You called?” her tired voice said, a strong hand rubbing through the knots of the upmost layer of her hair.

 

An ill-mannered response for what seemed to be the future Queen of Westeros.

 

Ned put on a tired grin, motioning lightly to the seats in front of him. “Jon, Robb. Thank you for coming in such a timely manner,”

 

“It’s no problem, Father. Really,” said Robb.

 

Clearing his throat, Lord Stark clenched his fists together and stared down at them with grief openly pronounced on his features. “Robb, Jon... How I’ve missed you. Never would I imagine myself in this position again, looking upon two of my greatest accomplishments. You and the rest of your siblings mean more to me than anything than anything the gods could ever gift me.”

 

Both Robb and Jona nodded, the former’s eyes becoming wetter by the second by Lord Stark’s heartfelt speech.

 

Robb’s voice wavered as he spoke, “Father... I’m sorry I failed you, failed the North. I just had to avenge you...avenge the North. What the Lannisters did to us was unacceptable. I had to act, and I am sorry with how the way it turned out in the end, but I will not apologize for my decisions. I did what I thought was right, and I died for it. But, I am more than willing to die for the North if need be again. The North remembers, Father. And, I will do whatever it takes to avenge it to its rightful place once more.”

 

Her Robb was always so passionate and headstrong, all the makings for the future Lord of Winterfell. But, for a King? Catelyn couldn’t say. Of course he had been an excellent warrior, commander and strategist. He was honorable to the fault, which was his downfall. A King should do what is right, not what is honorable. Robb did not have impulses—his decision in marrying was to protect her honor, the honor that left him headless in a hall full of Lannister supporters and his bannermen dead.

 

“Lord Stark,” Jon started softly, “If we are openly communicating about our emotions, I am quite vexed with you at the moment.”

 

Lord Stark audibly gulped, and fingers paced the hard wood beneath his hand. “I could only imagine why, Jon. I have done you many disservices and I am ashamed of myself for it,”

 

She hummed, narrowing her eyes at the shivering man, “Disservices, you say? Keeping what I had the right to know about from me is not a disservice, it’s a deplorable action, Lord Stark.”

 

“You’re right, and I sincerely apologi-“

 

“Your apologies don’t cut it, Lord Stark!” she snapped, “You let me sneak off to the Nights Watch and did nothing. You would have me live the rest of my life with the name of a bastard then admit your precious little secret. I know you did it to protect me, but when did my protection become a preservation of your honor?”

 

Jona breathed out three harsh breaths, caressing the top of her child’s head to calm her anger. “All I ever wanted was to know who my mother was. That is all. While I grew up being told time and time again that I could only hope to become a Lord’s whore, nevertheless his wife, Robb was told what good a Lord he would come to be. Governing over The North as the head of House Stark. His actions led to praise while mine raised scorned. What could a bastard’s dreams ever be? The only thing I ever pleaded to you about, and you denied me.” She bleated out.

 

“You denied me my parentage! My house, my culture, my family! Why didn’t you tell me, Lord Stark! Why?”

 

This was the first time Catelyn had ever seen Jona in bathed in wrath, her heaving chest and clenched fists did nothing to soothe the worry she had for Ned in the coming moments.

 

It was true. Catelyn had treated Jona unfairly, but she would gladly go back and do the same if she had no memory of her parentage. Jona was lucky to have been raised near her children and husband, lucky to have had a roof over her head. If it were had been up to her, Jona would have been a Lords whore. It was wrong, it was sinful, but so was being a bastard. They had no right to be near her and her family, a onetime mistake was all they were nothing would change that.

 

But, Jona was a Queen, not a bastard. To Catelyn, however, she would always be the Whore of Winterfell, Ned’s disgrace. She had no sympathy to her pleas as of now. The grief her family has caused made Catelyn plead to the Gods to save Jona a place in the fiery depths of hell. She could admire her strength, her courage, her loyalty; but she would never have a place in Catelyn’s heart, no matter what she did.

 

Her musings caused her to miss the entirety of the conversation—Robb pale as a sheet, and Jona staring forward blankly.

 

“I am to marry... Margaery Tyrell?” Robb uttered out.

 

“Mayhaps, Brother. It is for the sake of the North—though once you see her, I am sure you shall have no disagreements towards your marriage. That is if the Tyrells remember the past, or we give a decent argument about the worries of marrying their precious golden flower to the Lannisters.” Jona muttered, rubbing the corners of her eyes with her free hand.

 

Catelyn finally spoke up after her refusal to speak, “And why would it change anything if they remembered the past? Why would they owe you anything?”

 

“Well, in shorter terms, they offered me a favor in exchange for the deeds I did for them. I would like to cash in that favor for Robb if they choose to honor the past. I am not too sure how many people are in current knowledge of the past, Lady Stark.” Jon stressed out, “I must ask that we keep all negotiations under the table to guard against unwanted attention towards House Stark from the current reigning family.”

 

“A reasonable request. But, Jon, you say that you want The North to parley with The South, why?” Lord Stark asked.

 

“Winter is coming, Lord Stark. We need their strength, supplies, armies, and so much more. I know that there is one problem, however. Lord Mace and Lady Olenna will not settle on Margaery becoming just the Lady of Winterfell. They want her to be the Queen—which will not happen. Daeron wants the throne, I am more than willing to rule with him. There will be no second wives. But, until I ascend onto the throne, the Tyrells will be waiting to seize that title.”

 

Robb coughed into his hand, “And, how are you so sure that you will gain the throne, Jon?”

 

“With the strength of the wolf and dragon—I will take what is ours with ice and fire.” She stated with nonchalance oozing from her. “I ask for the North’s assistance in gaining the throne, but I cannot give you what you want in return. The North must remain within the Seven Kingdoms, I cannot allow you to be an independent kingdom—as much as it pains me to say.”

 

“Why?” Robb urged, knocking his hand against the wooden chair. “After all the North has been through...You would make us stay within the kingdom that tried to destroy us?”

 

Jona sighed, rubbing her hands together tightly, “To be queen is to be fair. By allowing the North to be an independent kingdom, I must allow the rest of the lands as well. Dorne especially. How would you like to hear that the Tyrells ruled the Reach in their own name now, and the North was not permitted to?”

 

“You speak the truth, but what does The North get in return for our allegiance?” Catelyn asked. “You can’t expect us to fight and gain nothing in return for our losses that are bound to happen.”

 

“My only expectation is that the North chooses to fight in exchange for the goodwill of the throne. Appeasements will be drawn up for whomever chooses to fight for the Targaryens, but it is to be sure that we cannot act now. Not while Daeron and I are separated. The moment I get back to him, however, we will start planning as soon as possible. You are not obligated to fight with us, but I can assure you that when the time comes, I do not want to be forced to overthrow the North due to an act of rebellion,” Jon said.

 

“You would betray us that quickly, Jon?” Robb whispered.

 

“It is not an act of betrayal. I must act in the interest of all parties. Letting the North slide while others are punished would result in a kingdom-wide rebellion against the throne.”

 

Lord Stark exhaled through his nose, “All that for the throne?”

 

“All that for democracy,”

 

“Democracy?” Catelyn asked, eyebrows bunching to the middle of her forehead, “Why in seven gods would you fight for democracy.”

 

Jona drummed her fingers against the wood in a melodic pattern, mouth opening and closing several times, “The world will fall if we don’t begin to make a change. We need to start leading our children, guiding our future generations. Everyone deserves a chance at a good life, no matter what you were born into. Royalty, lordships, heirs and heiresses, poverty... they’re all the same—given the situation each could make changes that could change society as we know it. If we do not make this change, the kingdoms will never develop into something great, something that we could be proud of when our descendants look back hundreds of years later.”

 

“A vision is what you have? And, how do you expect your great vision to play out. Smoothly, I expect. As much as I hate to say it, the poor are still poor, and the rich are only getting richer.” Lord Stark grimaced out, “Your world sounds lovely, but we need to be realistic, how do expect us—a small group of influential people who are willing to fight for this—to make an impact on those who would have the largest?”

 

“We need to play our hand right, set the cards up in order for us to win the war. Plans need to be made, whether we like it or not. We can finish what Lord Rickon started, southern ambitions. There’s no going further up North from here, so us wolves must track down South leaving our mark wherever we piss,” she said with a small grin. “Robb knows his place, it’s time to play God and decipher what we will make of the others lives.”

 

She stood up and Catelyn was sure she heard the bones of her knees and hips croak in response, the little child on Jona’s chest raised his head to look Catelyn straight in the eyes. Icy blue met pale milk. His tongue rolled out of his mouth as he gave her a dimpled smile.

 

Catelyn may not like the bastard—but, she created the most pretty baby Catelyn had ever laid eyes on. Abnormally long hair and eyelashes created a work of art that only few could created. She remembered when Robb and Sansa were born, she would never admit it to a single breathing person, but they were hideous. Simple as that. Robb was born purple and screaming so loud at the top of his lungs she’d thought there was something wrong with him mentally. Sansa had rolls upon rolls that she gracefully grew out of, but her red face stuck with her at times. This baby, Mairon if she remembered correctly, was carefully crafted from the tears of angels.

 

Catelyn was almost excited to see the Targaryen-scum that fathered him—just to see if he really was the father of this child, nothing more.

 

Jon’s long fingers drummed roughly into her cheekbones, “I was thinking that we should open up a trading route to Essos—yes, I’m aware of the many we have there, but what about making friends with Yi Ti...?”

 

Catelyn couldn’t help the way her lips quirked up—Southern Ambitions Indeed, Jon Snow.

::

_**RHAEGAR OF HOUSE TARGARYEN** _

 

“Viserys, I am ashamed of your physical inabilities. You are worth less than a ox,” Daeron gestured to the flaccid form of Viserys. “You need to move! Viserys we are all going to die if you can’t put your foot in front on the other,”

 

Viserys moved limply against Rhaegar, moaning about the pain of his middle and the unfairness of the situation. To be fair, he brought the entire situation upon himself.

 

It had gone wrong—very wrong. It was fine one moment, then the next was pure terror. The shouts of war-hardened Unsullied quickly following them was enough to make a grown man soil himself. Rhaegar was still unsure if Viserys remained clean. Rhaegar and Daeron took one look at one another of ran out into the hallways as fast as they could. Viserys lagged with one arm lodged behind Rhaegar whilst they made the run for their life.

 

From past experiences, he knew that there were no scenarios where all three of them made it out unscathed. There were too many guards and Unsullied, should they be caught, they would be skewered and roasted for the Dothraki to feast upon. Mayhaps, they could sacrifice Viserys and be done with him. Mother would roll in her grave and come up from the dead as he did, most likely smacking him upside the head if he did that, though.

 

Daeron looked frantic, wild violet eyes danced around the room in an effort to come up with something—anything to get them out safety. He knew because it was the same thing he was doing. If anything, Rhaegar was ready to surrender himself, be released into the sweetness of death once more. Let his brothers get the chance he never had, and probably never will.

 

His fate did not belong here—he did not belong here. He belonged elsewhere in a different time with different people. This time, by his careful examinations of his surroundings whilst running for his life, had a disposition of chaos and peace mixed into a beautiful melody.

 

Pentos was odd; Rhaegar couldn’t say it had the beauty of Summerhall, it clearly didn’t, but he could say it was entirely different from the rest of the cities he’d seen. It had a certain charm; from the little vibrant desert flowers that popped up from the cracks of the cliffs, to the tan buildings that were blended in so well that only the vibrant splashes of color on the side of their balconies were noticeable. It was a charming place, with certainly enough beauty to pass his opinionated test. But, this was only from what he’d seen from the windows.

 

Rhaegar missed his wives—both of them, technically. He missed Elia’s sun, her light: the way her skin glowed in the joys of motherhood, the smiles she bestowed upon him after their wedding, the way her smooth skin skimmed over his. He missed Lyanna’s rage, her passion: the way her taut thighs stretched around his neck, sharp nails scratched at his scalp and smoothed over his cheeks, the tears she shed when she sang her love to him.

 

He was a selfish man. Rhaegar would freely admit that. He craved his impulses, the power that denied him nothing and granted him everything. Two beautiful wives are the dream of any man—Rhaegar had it. The influence and sway over the Seven Kingdom was envied by many, including his father. Rhaegar’s needs were met without a single heartbeat left in between, but it never amounted to anything. The hole within him could never be filled—nothing sated the ache it left.

 

Their escape began when Daeron picked the lock to the safe room, the reinforced steel cube filled to the brim with golds and treasures. Daeron immediately began commanding them in a voice they couldn’t refuse, and in a short time, their bags had been filled with valuables and gold.

 

“Rhaegar?” Daeron murmured, beckoning him over with a crook of a finger, “Look.”

 

Within a sturdy oak box laid three large eggs. Eggs he would have never imagined finding in his lifetime. Dragon eggs were in his line of sight, just in reach for him to reach out and touch. Gleaming emerald scales brushed with bronze called out to him, begging him to caress the rough surface and awaken their fire once more. Reaching out, he inched his hand closer, the call near irresistible—

 

His brother smacked his hand away like a mother scolding her child, “You can touch later, brother,” Daeron chided, “Now is not the time. Gather what you can, we need to leave, now.”

 

Whilst hidden and cloaked away, Daeron and Rhaegar had successfully killed three Unsullied guards—regrettably. While he still had some skill with a dagger, his brother moved with fluidity and grace. With fancy twists and handsome twirls of the blade, Daeron gave a painless death to two Unsullied, forever silencing them. Rhaegar himself killed one with a lucky shot to the neck.

 

Still, it wasn’t enough to keep them from their inevitable capture that was steadily approaching. More Unsullied screamed past them as they hid within the shadows of the clay halls, he could hear Daeron mumbling under his breath and twitching his hands beside him.

 

“Rhaegar,” Daeron muttered softly, “I need you to do something for me.”

 

“Daeron?” he questioned.

 

His brother’s blade twirled in his clean hand, an obvious sag of unease hunched his mood. The blade stopped, only to be put within Rhaegar’s bloody hand. “Cut me, please. Viserys, as well,”

 

Cut him?

 

“Pardon?”

 

Daeron sighed, “Take the blade and cut Viserys and I across the cheek. We don’t have all day.”

 

”What are you going on about, Daeron? Why would I-“

 

He cut him off mid-sentence, “Dammit, Rhaegar. Just do it for fuck’s sake, by the gods you’re slower than Viserys,”

 

Rhaegar didn’t know whether or not to be offended by that comment—he in favor decided to slice cleanly across the sharpness of his cheek, watching as red rubies flowed gracefully down the smooth baby skin of Daeron.

 

Daeron didn’t winced the slightest, and Rhaegar himself knew how much it stung to have the skin of a Valyrian incise.

 

Viserys took not but a thought to slit his eyebrow in two. Rhaegar had been with Viserys for naught but an hour at most, and he’d already decided he’d had enough of his sourness. His wallowing became louder as the blood poured into his eye, hurling curses and insults to his only family.

 

The smooth skin of Daeron’s hand rested lightly onto his shoulder, rousing him from any morbid thoughts he had of Viserys. The striking violet was all he could see in the darkness, guiding him to Daeron’s voice. “Listen carefully, brother. You must not forget what I am about to tell you, do you understand?”

 

Rhaegar opened his mouth, refusal almost bubbling through the barrier of his mind, but instead, settling on nodding his head dutifully.

 

Daeron ripped both the bags of valuables off his shoulder, shoving them into Rhaegar’s hesitant arms. Shaking out his joints, he pointed to the back of him, and with a strong hand, forcefully turned Rhaegar around to where he was looking. “You see that window over there?”

 

Said window could barely fit a lesser-than-average grown man, and, not to raise his own hackles, Rhaegar exceed expectations. There was no way that he could even begin to try and-

 

“Jump through it, yeah? Just run and leap. I promise the landing should be kind, the sea is warm on all bits of you,” Daeron said.

 

Clanking of iron and screams of warriors gained ground. Closer and closer, the Unsullied marched, Rhaegar thought quietly about his second death, would it be kinder? ”You needn’t worry about us, I will take care of it. But, Rhaegar?”

 

Footsteps came closer, huffs and puffs of men whispered menacingly as impending death doomed upon them. Rhaegar could almost smell the sweet smell of Elia gracing him, or the sharp smack of Lyanna’s hand.

 

“Rhaegar!” Daeron hissed, withdrawing his hand from the red print that now marred Rhaegar’s face. “Do exactly as I say: once you drop into the ocean, swim northbound and reach the shore. Go into center-town and use the golden coins within your pouch to rent yourself an inn. Whatever you do, do not draw attention to yourself, understand? After two days, send a raven to Winterfell and address it to Jona Snow...” His brother’s sweet face suddenly dropped, souring into a look not unlike the one Viserys sported right now.

“Dammit, fuck..” He muttered, licking the front of his teeth. “What if she doesn’t remember. Damn. Okay, Rhaegar?”

 

“Yes?” He said hesitantly.

 

“Address it the letter to Lord Eddard Stark, and explain the situation. Don’t follow wherever Viserys and I shall go. Keep up and wait for the Starks. We shall hope for the best and hopefully, the man shall remember our past life. If not... oh well.” Daeron sighed and rubbed the crease of his forehead, the yells approaching at a rapid pace. “Just, don’t tell them who you are. Put two things at the bottom of the letter: One, Jon got her scar on the top of her left asscheek from falling into the Acorn Water and landing on a rock after having too much wine when she was ten-and-three, and two, Lord Stark did father a bastard but it wasn’t Jon, it was Allyria Dayne.”

 

Rhaegar’s eyes nearly popped out of his head, the Honorable Stark? Fathering a bastard. Jon Snow? “Pardon?”

 

“Go, Rhaegar. Now.” Daeron tossed his head over his shoulder seeing the Unsullied clanking around the corner where they hid. “Now!”

 

Possibly, this could be the last time he would see his younger brothers. He stared at the soft features of Daeron, and the harsh lines of stress already implemented on Viserys’ face. The pearlescent gleam of their hair, and lips of their mother. Daeron had a small smile in his eyes, and even Viserys was caressed with a streak of sorrow. “Farewell,” he mouthed.

 

Twenty steps away lay the window, forty the Unsullied. Rhaegar would run with all he had, and hope he was lithe enough to get through that small of a space. Honestly, he couldn’t be for certain that this was just a set up by Daeron for Rhaegar to jump to his own death.

 

His feet slapped the ground, and Unsullied scream after him in garbled Valyrian—the only thing recognizable was to stop, and scum. Rhaegar ran faster, gathering momentum to throw himself out the window, hands in front of him to slim down his shape. The stars finally floated above him, his body free falling out of the malodorous clay building. The moon was the only witness of his escape, smiling down in relief at him. Rhaegar did not see how far down the ocean was, only choosing to close his eyes and smile in the face of death.

 

The first impact hit him the hardest. He was hit by Robert Baratheon all over again, and for a second, the darkness of death slapped him across the face. Rhaegar felt himself collapse into the warm depths of the sea, the bags Daeron threw at him now dragging him down into the tides. For one, Rhaegar had never been the strongest of swimmers, good enough to swim chest deep in the ocean, but not well enough to casually swim with a stones worth of gold on his shoulders, rapidly sinking him down thousands of feet into a dark abyss under his feet. One could say Rhaegar was not an ocean kind of man. But, not even he could argue the view from under the water.

 

Warm yellow light slowly flooded the horizon, the sun gently kissing the moon away into darkness. Pentoshi skies were never to be rivaled, candy colored swirls danced with the stars, whisking them away to follow their leaders respectably. Rhaegar watched as the light faded as he sank deeper, the water freezing from the lack of sunshine. It almost suffocated him—the dark. How he still had not suffered asphyxiation, Rhaegar did not know. What he did know, is that he needed rid of the gold, fast. Daeron was counting on him, relying on him for their families survival.

 

How could he save Daeron and Viserys if he couldn’t even save himself?

 

Rhaegar let go of the heaviest bag filled with useless, valuable items. Like the kind his father and Lord Tywin had displayed throughout the Red Keep to stun the Lords and Ladies that wandered about. He watched the ruby encrusted goblet and jewel-studded cutlery fall to nowhere.

 

His throat tightened, the urge to cough and stutter more prominent than any other time in his life. All his internal organs screamed at him for oxygen, his lungs beating on his heart and rib cage, trying and failing to get some semblance of new oxygen. Rhaegar felt bad for himself. He did not want to be in this situation, but alas, the gods decided to intervene with his life and chuck him somewhere he didn’t belong. Somewhere in the afterlife, Arthur was laughing at him. Cackling about how he should have listened to him, listened to the fact that he should have never been involved with that Stark girl, listened to how he preached about full-body exercises that Rhaegar never cared to join in on. His thigh muscles scorned him, kicking and paddling to the surface of the water at a speed he never would have thought his body could produce.

 

Every part of him burned—he’d gladly take Robert’s hammer to the chest again if it meant to never again experience this constant wave of fatigue.

 

The dawn reminded him of his oldest’s eyes. Rhaeny’s, the light of his life, center of his universe. As much as it pained him, the attachment to Aegon never blossomed in the few time he’d met him. The soft fair curl would never depart itself from his memory, but the way Aegon’s little mouth curled did. The resemblance between his children and him never was the greatest—taking after Elia more than anything. Their golden skin and curvature of facial features screamed Dornish, with only the signature trademark of the Targaryen’s distinguishing them as his children: the nose. Odd, yes, but extremely distinguishable to a person telling them apart from illegitimate to legitimate.

 

He was not the best father, but he tried. Rhaegar sang the Dornish lullabies Rhaeny’s adored and preferred compared to the Valyrian ones that made her cry out for Elia. When Aegon was born, he did his best to be there within the first days of his life—only missing his goal by a week, it wasn’t his fault, the ship broke unexpectedly. Rhaegar could certainly say for a fact that his role of fatherhood and how he approached it was better than his father’s.

 

He wondered how his youngest looked. Would she have the face of the North? Or the exotic features of the Targaryens? The scorn of Lyanna, or the pacifist nature of him? Was she raised correctly, brought up with dignity and respect? Loved by Rhaenys and Aegon, the rest of the Stark children (if any), and Lord and Lady Stark themselves. He only wished for his children to grow up loved and cared for, it was unfortunate that he was killed so early on in their lives, but it didn’t mean they had to stop living. Rhaegar wondered if Elia and Lyanna were with them, raising them in the shadows of Winterfell—based on the implications of the Targaryen’s loss.

 

Rhaegar could only wonder—in present time, he lay back down rocking back and forth to the rhythm of the soothing waves, slowly but surely making his way into the middle of the vast ocean. He could almost see the reassuring smile of his mother in fading moon floating wanderlust west.

 

For once, the Prince himself had no clue of where he was going, what he was doing. In an unusual world, stranded in an unfamiliar city. Never would he imagine himself in a situation such as the predicament he had been sent into. The pampered lifestyle he lived was oftentimes taken for granted. Most of the time, he didn’t even need to think for himself, just told what to do and when to do it. People took care of this stuff for him, not the other way around. Rhaegar may be smart, but he became thick headed whenever planning came into the picture. As much as he hated to say it, he was a short-sighted kind of man. If something came to mind—it could be arranged within an instant.

 

It’s what probably led to his downfall—the lack of foresight. Did he think of the consequences of his decisions? Apparently not nearly enough. He could only sit in the waves and count the stars as every bad decision he’d ever made led up to this point: alone in enemy territory with all the possessions he currently owned on his back, threatening to sink into the water, relying on a Stark to come save the future of his house.

 

There were many things that Prince Rhaegar could confess to—being afraid was not one of them.

**Author's Note:**

> yo, season eight was... something else. so im coping and getting rid of some of my notes in my library ;)


End file.
